


Summer Blue

by Acre_of_wheat



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Competitive arcade playing, Dramatic taco Bell visits, F/F, Flower AU, Old Records, Parking lot fistfights, Summer, dingy clubs, gratuitous fishing, lakeside adventures, late night tv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 21:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acre_of_wheat/pseuds/Acre_of_wheat
Summary: Lexa works at a greenhouse in a dying lakeside town. Clarke's father has died and everything about her family's summer home reminds her of what she's lost. When Lexa and Clarke meet, they recognize the same sadness-- and the same attraction-- in each other.





	1. Chapter 1

Lexa presses the soil down with her fingers, her nails ringed with dirt and the smell of hydrangeas making her breath feel lighter with every inhale. The whole greenhouse smells like wet earth, the greenest smell she knows, and the sun beating through the glass makes even the air seem green.

She was finally finished repotting the last of the flower basket display; all ready for the summer rush of ladies with lawns to beautify, their hats overlarge and their tennis shoes grimy with mulch. Lexa would never admit it to her boss, but there is a part of her that enjoys showing the garden club types around-- picking out new trowels and flower print gloves, matching them with the right perennials and ringing up those godawful garden stones with the sayings like "fairy play zone" and "friends, like flowers, bloom with love."

She had grown up with a yard that was either perpetually overgrown or burnt into brown patches, collecting bouquets of dandelions in mason jars, but Lexa doesn't begrudge these ladies with too much time and money on their hands. She knows they have grandchildren who will enjoy and uproot the nonsensical moon gardens their grandmother's are planting.

Maybe if she had the space she'd plant her own obnoxious garden aesthetic, but Anya's baren second story apartment has a view over a stretch of cracked parking lot, not a garden plot. Instead, Lexa keeps herbs in the window; basil and thyme and rosemary, rubbing the leaves between her fingers when she's bored or studying, dried leaves always ending up in her backpack, making her smell like a walking spice rack. The comfort of the smell helps on the days when her half-sister is out of town for a week at a time on deliveries and there is nothing in the kitchen beyond what a broke college student can afford-- which is to say nothing.

But it is summer now, and summer is always easier; Lexa can work full-time at Ground & Acres, bringing home the literal bacon she can finally afford, eating peanut butter out of the jar like a wild thing. Anya takes longer stretches of time off, dragging the rusted three legged grill to the parking lot and downing Natural Ice, because it may be shitty, but she "sure as hell isn't drinking it for the taste."

Lexa catches herself almost smiling and shakes her head, focusing on the flower basket below her. She snaps off a few browning leaves before she straightens up, wiping her hands on her jeans, working the dirt that's already streaking them in even further.

She hefts the basket-- surprisingly heavy for dirt and flowers-- and climbs the step ladder to hang it on one of the greenhouse's sprinkler poles. Ground & Acres is quiet today and Luna is taking her grandson to lunch, so Lexa is alone. Between the green and the solitude and the earthy smell Lexa can't help her good mood and she whistles through her teeth, the way her Uncle Gustus had taught her before he was a folded flag on Anya's shelf. Lexa was just stretching to hook the flower basket in place when she hears someone clearing their throat below her. The whistle dies on her lips and Lexa turns so fast she loses her balance, the ladder shuddering beneath her. She throws her arm out to the sprinkler pole and holds on for dear life at the same time the girl who interrupted her grabs the ladder, steadying it beneath Lexa's feet.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry!" she says, blue eyes apologetic, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Lexa wavers, her balance still off, and not because of the ladder. 

"You didn't startle me," Lexa says slowly, making her expression as indifferent as she can, "this is just a terrible ladder."

"Oh," the girls says as her eyes narrow, and gives the ladder a little experimental shake.

The ladder barely moves, brand-new and traitorous, but Lexa increases her death-grip on the sprinkler pole anyway, hydrangea basket still held tight in her other hand.

"Yeah," the girl says, and her eyes look like she wants to smile, "it's pretty bad."

"Yes," Lexa says seriously and turns to hang the hydrangeas, her breath coming shorter, like she's been running.

"Nice tunes," the girl says when Lexa finishes and turns to her again. Lexa frowns in confusion and the girl purses her lips and whistles. It is an objectively terrible whistle, breathy and sharp, and people look ridiculous whistling but this girl somehow doesn't.Even if she's making fun of her Lexa wishes she would do it again.

"Oh," Lexa says instead.

She starts to climb down and the girl shoots out a hand to steady her and out of instinct Lexa takes it and they both freeze and look sort of startled. It's such a bizarre gesture-- like a gentleman in a period film helping a lady off a horse-- and Lexa jumps the rest of the way off the ladder just to escape how awkward it makes her feel.

She hits the ground and rubs her hands on her jeans.

"You don't look like a gardener," the girl says in a moment.

Lexa frowns, looking down at herself; work boots, dark jeans, black tank, various levels of potting soil worked into everything. She shrugs.

"I'm not really a gardener," Lexa says, and she sounds pedantic even to herself, "I just take care of the plants."

The girl's eyes twinkle and the corner of her mouth just barely tilts up.

"Okay," she says, "Not a gardener."

Lexa can't tell if the other girl looks like a gardener either. Definitely not in the shoes she's wearing-- patterned summer flats. Bare legs and blue shorts that demand the sun come out just to give their shortness some legitimacy, and a gray top that shimmers just a bit in the light. She's also wearing one of those filmy infinity scarves with blue birds on it, and while Lexa has never understood the point of them, seeing how the blue brings out the girl's eyes has her deciding to make an exception for it. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, blonde strands with just the hint of a curl to them escaping around her face in a way that looks intentionally careless.

When Lexa gets to her face the girl raises her eyebrows, and Lexa realizes that her visual cataloguing had her running her eyes all the way up the girl in an appraising way. Lexa isn't the type to blush, but her fists do tighten together.

"So you take care of the plants," the girl says, and her voice has that hint of laughter that hasn't left it this entire conversation, "Can you also sell me some?"

Lexa nods. The hydrangea she just watered and hung drips on her and she jerks, wiping the wet soil off her bare shoulder, smearing it in instead.

The girl smiles huge, and Lexa thinks jealously about how the pillbugs she finds on the plants can curl in on themselves.

"Hold on," the girl says and takes a step towards her. Lexa has to fight the urge not to step back as she approaches, reaching out a hand and pulling something out of Lexa's curls.

When she pulls away there is a petal in her hands, the same bright pink of the hydrangeas Lexa hung, and Lexa decides that hydrangeas are overrated and should be phased out of stock.

"So," Lexa says, stopping herself from running a hand through her hair to check for more stray petals, "what are you looking for?"

The girl pulls a face and Lexa wants to smile but doesn't, "Something I can't kill?"

Lexa nods, heading down the row. The girl hesitates for a moment and then falls into step just behind her.

"Indoor or outdoor?" Lexa asks.

"Indoor," the girl responds.

Lexa nods, coming to an abrupt halt and the girl stumbles into her, all softness against Lexa's edges. Lexa has always been sharp lines and wiry limbs-- "Hey bird-bones," Anya had used to call her, "don't bust anything falling out of that tree or you can go to the emergency room yourself," but the girl is curves instead of angles, and Lexa suddenly thinks she may have been lonely for a long time.

Lexa swallows and steps carefully away, gesturing to the pots in front of her.

"Snake plant," she says, pointing to the plant in front of her, green and yellow leaves standing straight up, "It thrives in all light conditions, and only minimal watering is necessary."

"Only minimal watering is necessary," the girl echoes with a smile and Lexa knows she is teasing.

The girl appraises the plant a moment and then shakes her head, "Nah."

"Okay," Lexa says and leads them towards the next row. "Chinese evergreen. Low light, moderate watering," Lexa pauses, licks her lips, "It can live for ten years."

The girl laughs, running a finger across the leaves, "That's a big commitment for something that won't even talk back to me-- I think I'll pass."

Lexa frowns and leads them on.

The girl has a colorful excuse for each plant Lexa shows her. The peace lily reminds her of a doctor's office. The philodendron looks like something from her grandparent's house. When she dismisses succulents as "for hipster weddings," Lexa nearly screams.

 

"Okay, I'm sorry, I know I'm wasting your time," the girl finally says with a look of contrition that makes Lexa instantly forgive her, "Tell you what-- you can pick. Whatever you tell me to get, I'll get. Just not, like, a tree." She frowns, "Or daisies. Daisies are for children and Meg Ryan."

"Are you sure?" Lexa asks, and suddenly she feels under pressure. It's unfair, Lexa thinks-- you should only have to worry about picking the right flowers for girls you're dating.

"I'm sure," she says and meets Lexa's eyes, grinning, "You seem like you have good taste."

Lexa's eyes widen a little and she looks away, clenching her fists again.

"Spiderwort," Lexa blurts, tripping out of her tongue-tie.

"I'm sorry?"

"The flower I would pick for you," Lexa says, meeting her eyes again earnestly, "spiderwort."

The girl makes a face and Lexa holds up a hand, nodding at the other girl's uncertainty.

"I know it is not a pleasant name. You could call it tradescantia, but that's--" the girl cocks her head, almost smiling again, and Lexa's words stop short, "Not important."

Lexa sighs, and straightens her shoulders, "Let me show you."

Lexa leads her down another aisle, to a group of pots with sharply green leaves arching over each other, delicate three petalled flowers in every shade of purple and blue showing through.

She searches among the pots until she finds the exact shade she's looking for. Lexa holds it up, looking between the girl and the plant a moment before she's satisfied, handing her a plant with flowers the same summer blue as her eyes.

The girl takes the plant carefully.

"It's beautiful," she says.

Lexa nods, "They are my favorite."

The girl smiles and for the first time it looks almost shy, "I figured your favorite would be more like a cactus."

"No," Lexa says, "Spiderwort."

"Terrible name," the girl says.

"Yes," Lexa replies, "Awful."

Lexa's mouth feels dry and she licks her lips. She can tell that this is a moment, a link between herself and this girl holding a planter of her favorite flowers, but she can't seem to pin it down with words. The possibilities of it make her feel dizzy and everything smells so green and this girl's eyes are so blue and she should just ask her name, but--

"I can ring you up at the front," Lexa says.

The girl's face falls just a bit before she covers for it, her smile a bit too forced and Lexa's heart falls.

She leads the way to the check-out counter, a heavy wooden L that Luna had carefully stencilled with winding vines and flowers, happy watering cans at uneven intervals. The girl follows behind her and Lexa feels more disappointed at herself with every step.

Lexa heads behind the counter and the girl places the planter on it with a soft thump. Lexa pulls out a receipt pad-- Luna would never spring for a cash register-- when the soft ding of the bell over the door brings Lexa's attention up for a moment.

He's on the far side of the greenhouse, head down and on his phone, but one look at him and the girl is scrambling on top of Lexa's counter. She vaults it-- actually leaps completely over the countertop-- and Lexa can't decide if this girl is on a track team or if adrenaline has just made her an Olympian.

"What are you--" Lexa begins, but the girl is already crouching down, shoving herself into the space between the counter wall and Lexa's legs.

"Just be cool," she says with ferocity, and Lexa almost laughs.

"Okay," Lexa says. Before she can decide whether to press for more details, the boy is heading towards her, slipping his phone back into his pocket with a smile and a shake of his head.

He has a lot of hair. Lexa would call it brown, but she's certain his conditioner has a more elegant name for it, because it's well-kept enough to be in a commercial. He runs his hand through it and smiles and Lexa thinks that probably works pretty well for him.

"Hi there," he says, "I'm Finn."

It's never a good sign when a customer introduces themselves; it usually means they'd like to build a half hour work 'relationship' with Lexa while she totes fertilizer bags to their truck and answers a dozen inane questions about non-invasive pesticides.

"Hello," Lexa replies finally. Finn seems unperturbed.

"I'm looking for something special today," he says, and Lexa stifles her sigh.

"Okay," she replies.

Finn's eyes narrow with a conspiratorial look, "I may have screwed things up with my girlfriend."

The moment he finishes speaking, the girl hiding beneath her counter grabs Lexa's ankle in a vice-like grip, and Lexa knocks over the pencil holder she keeps on the desk for filling out inventory orders. Pens and pencils and at least one ruler scatter everywhere and Lexa murmurs a quiet 'sorry' before ducking down to collect the ones rolling across the floor.

As she bends down the girl catches her eyes. The exaggerated way she mouths the word could make it anything, but the embarrassed horror in her eyes says "Ex" clearly enough.

Lexa widens her eyes and shrugs, the universal 'what am I going to do' gesture. The girl's face falls.

"Please," she whispers.

Lexa sighs, and nods, and stands. The girl doesn't let go of her ankle.

"Sorry," she says again, tossing pens back onto the counter.

"No problem," Finn replies, still looking mostly unfazed.

Lexa suffers in silence a moment. 

"Something special," she finally reminds him.

"Yeah," Finn says, "No red roses or baby's breath."

She feels a tap on her shin and Lexa glances down. The girl has grabbed one of the fallen pens and scrawled something on her palm.

'HE CHEATED' it says. Lexa's eyes snap back up to Finn. She grits her teeth.

"Does she have a preference between flowering or nonflowering plants?"

Finn thinks a moment, "Flowering, probably."

He twists the pot on the counter between his hands.

"What kind of plant is this?" he asks, and the girl grabs her other ankle, squeezing so hard Lexa thinks she might leave a bruise.

"Spiderwort."

Finn makes a face, "That's an ugly name."

"I know," Lexa snaps.

"Do you have a recommendation?" Finn asks and he sounds like he's trying to make peace.

Lexa narrows her eyes, "Daisies."

"You think so?"

"Yes," she says, voice low, "Everyone loves daisies."

Finn smiles and shrugs.

He finds a pot he likes easily enough, and Lexa tries to check him out quickly, charging him azalea prices for being an asshole.

"What's her name?" Lexa asks as she hands Finn his change, ignoring the way the girl under the counter is digging her nails into Lexa's ankles, "The girl you may have screwed things up with?"

Finn smiles and takes the money. 

"Clarke," he says.

"Clarke," Lexa echoes, "That's a good name."

Finn laughs and nods and walks away, a pot of daisies under his arm.

The bell above the door tinkles and Lexa waits another ten seconds before she looks down.

"All clear," she says.

Lexa reaches a hand down to help her up and Clarke takes it. This time Lexa doesn't let her go.

Clarke is pink with embarrassment and she rubs her temple nervously.

"God, I am so sorry. I know that was exceptionally weird."

Lexa nods.

"Yes," she replies, "But I find you much more approachable."

Clarke laughs, and Lexa knows it's the best sound she will hear all summer.

"I'm Lexa," she says.

"Lexa," Clarke repeats, "That's a good name."


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke creeps down the stairs, hugging the bannister to stay on the far edge, careful not to make the wood creak. The house makes a settling noise and Clarke freezes, listening to the silence to make sure Abby hasn't been disturbed. Both she and her mother are light sleepers, and Clarke needs this morning to herself. The only sound she hears is the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the den, and Clarke let's out the breath she was holding.

She makes it to the bottom of the stairs and heads to the back breezeway, socked feet on the hardwood making her shuffle slide as she goes. She pulls on tennis shoes and is about to shrug on the hoodie she'd brought with her when her eyes catch the brown leather jacket hanging from a peg by the door. Clarke runs her finger across it and hesitates only a moment before she pulls it down and over her shoulders. The leather is a little stiff from being left alone since last summer and the sleeves go past her fingers but Clarke doesn't care. She turns her nose into the collar and breaths in.

It's just after 4am, and light is beginning to color the sky gray-blue, the dark water of the lake picking up hints of color at the top of its soft waves. Clarke has painted that same look a dozen times. She heads down to the dock, grimacing at the noise as she pulls the aluminum rowboat over the stony beach and into the water.

Clarke doesn't dare attempt the outboard motor so close to the house, and instead pulls the oars out, awkward and a little out of practice at rowing, and sets out across the lake. There is mist on the water, Clarke moves through it like memory, and she thinks this morning might be a good one for ghosts.

Partway across the lake Clarke stows the oars and switches to the motor, the engine catching with a tired roar. She steers into an empty dock in front of an expanse of grass, a three story house with towering windows set far back on the lot.

The house is dark and she knows no one is home. The Jaha's haven't used their summer house for years, but they have never sold it. Clarke heads to the tree in the backyard, where she can see the treehouse through thick summer green leaves. The wood of the old playhouse is rotting and almost as green as the leaves and Clarke knows it wouldn't be safe to climb up in. She sits on the grass instead, jeans going damp from the morning dew, and thinks how to begin.

"I wanted to tell you in person," she says. Clarke rubs quickly at her eyes, trying to stop the wetness there before it starts, "but you really should have been here for it."

Wells is buried in a family plot the Jaha's have owned for three generations, but Clarke believes more in spirits than bodies, and she still thinks of him as being here, in the place they spent so much time in. It was always Wells' favorite.

"My dad died," she says finally, "I thought you should know."

She doesn't want to be angry with Wells, but she is, because her best friend should be here for her right now. He should be alive to become a brilliant professor, and to beat her at chess, and to show her how to cook, and to write her long letters while she's at school, and it's been three years now and that's long enough. Wells should just be alive.

So should her dad.

Clarke tears at the wet grass, wrapping green between her fingers. She sighs and stands because she has no words left to say and trudges back to her boat, shoulders up and head down, coat collar up around her ears.

Clarke sits stubbornly in the boat, aluminum siding dinging against the dock as the water laps at it. Whatever she thought this morning trip would make her feel, it hasn't, and that exhausts her more than the approaching dawn does. She's afraid of the way death seems to compound itself, reopening the past and making everything hurt more than is fair. She's afraid this sadness is bigger than the summer, and she doesn't know how to go back to Georgetown this way.

Clarke's stomach rumbles and she frowns, not yet ready to return to the house and her mom and their marble topped kitchen. She starts her engine and heads in the opposite direction of home.

Clarke docks at the lakeside gas station, tying off the boat and entering the tiny convenience store. She walks into the sounds of an argument she feels it's far too early in the morning for.

"Listen, I can't just give you a fishing license."

"Tristan," a serious and familiar voice says, "fishing license fees are for lake tourists. I am a resident."

"And it's still seventeen dollars," he replies.

Lexa is standing at the counter, a fishing pole in one hand and a baseball cap over her curling braids. She's wearing a fishing vest and knee shorts and there's an actual tackle box at her feet, and she looks so perfectly the part of the serious angler that Clarke wants to laugh and then immediately draw her.

"Tristan," Lexa says, her voice low and even, "this is extortion."

"It's the law!" the cashier throws his hands up in exasperation.

"Good morning," Clarke says, and Lexa jerks at her voice, turning with that same unsteady suddenness that got her in trouble on the greenhouse ladder. Clarke enjoys this immensely.

Clarke can see Lexa visibly calm herself, lowering her shoulders and schooling the surprise from her eyes.

"Clarke," she says, "good morning."

Clarke smiles at the precise way Lexa says her name. There's a moment of silence before Lexa nods to the cashier.

"This is Tristan," Lexa says, "He's about to give me a fishing license."

"I'm not," Tristan replies, "Unless you've got seventeen dollars."

Lexa turns her baleful glare on Tristan who becomes very interested in the "leave a penny, take a penny" plate on the counter. Lexa looks back to Clarke.

"How are you today?" she asks. Lexa looks so focused, like every cell in her brain is bent completely on the task of talking to her, that Clarke feels some of the weight of the day recede from her. It's a relief, and suddenly Clarke wants very much to go fishing with this serious, off-balance mess, whose sentences are too clipped, and who knows flowers, and has her own tackle box. She wants it because this morning has already been too hard on Clarke, and she keeps catching glimpses of how soft Lexa looks under all that stoicism.

Clarke takes the impulse and runs with it.

"I'll get the license," she says.

Lexa looks surprised and Tristan glances up from his pennies for a moment before ducking his head back down again.

"You don't need to do that, Clarke," Lexa finally says with a frown.

"Hey, I'm a lake tourist, I should be supporting the local economy or whatever," Clarke says and Lexa frowns deeper. Clarke changes tack, "How about I cover the license, and you do all the actually hard work and catch me something?"

"It's not that hard of work," Lexa replies.

Clarke rolls her eyes, "Lexa. Come on."

Lexa seems to consider it. 

"Alright," she nods, "agreed."

"Great!" Clarke says and slips her credit card to Tristan before Lexa can change her mind. "Oh, hang on," she says to the cashier, dashing to grab a box of poptarts, a container of corn bait, a bottle of cranberry juice, and a very sad looking banana.

Lexa raises an eyebrow when she returns. 

"All set?" she asks, and if she wasn't so deadpan Clarke would swear Lexa was actually teasing.

"Yes," Clarke says and shoves Lexa lightly. Lexa's grip tightens around her fishing pole with an audible twang of the metal and she looks like she's willing herself not to blush. Clarke is delighted by this development.

 

Tristan rings her up and Clarke gathers her purchases, leading Lexa back to the dock. She hops in the boat and Lexa unties the rope, stepping in carefully after her. Clarke yanks the cord a few times before the engine catches and turns them around, heading them towards open water.

"Where we headed?" Clarke asks, "Where's the deadliest catch?"

"There's nothing deadly in the lake, Clarke. It's mostly bluegill."

"Oh my god, Lexa," Clarke says.

"And smallmouth bass."

"Please be joking."

Lexa's eyes slide to Clarke and she can see there is a near smile at the corner of Lexa's mouth.

"Yes, Clarke, I'm joking," Lexa says, and points towards the far side of the lake, "Over there is good."

Clarke nods and adjusts their course and they fall into silence, cutting through water that is beginning to dazzle Clarke's eyes with the glare from the sun.

Clarke watches the way that Lexa sits stiffly, fishing pole still in hand, studying their wake. The rising sun has made Lexa's eyes the color of light through lake water, a green that's shifting and magnetic and Clarke thinks about how long she'd have to mix her paints to make that color. 

Lexa points them towards an opening in a patch of yellow reeds, the stalks swaying slightly in their wake, and Clarke nestles them inside. She cuts the engine and Lexa unlatches her tacklebox. Clarke smiles at just how many lures there are in it.

"Oh, here," Clarke says suddenly, searching through her grocery bag and fishing out the bait she bought, "you can use this."

"What is that?" Lexa asks, pausing as she ties a sinker to her line.

"Sweet corn bait," Clarke replies and then almost laughs at how affronted Lexa looks.

"I won't catch anything with that," she says. Lexa pulls a mason jar full of earth from her tackle box and unscrews the lid. Clarke can see the dark brown-red of nightcrawlers moving through the soil.

Clarke sighs, "Poor worms."

Lexa frowns and pulls a worm from the earth, and it twists in her fingers at the disturbance.

"I do not think worms can feel pain," she says, "All they are is a simple nervous system. They can't process that kind of stimulus."

"Are you a bio major or something?" Clarke asks.

"No," Lexa says, "Engineering. Chemical." She meets Clarke's eyes, "But I watch Jeopardy."

Clarke raises her eyebrows and scoffs, "Okay trivia-champ, why do they squirm on the hook if they don't feel pain?"

Lexa inclines her head slightly. 

"Fair," she concedes. Clarke gives an audible 'hah' at her victory as Lexa regards the worm solemnly.

"Victory," she addresses the worm, "stands on the back of sacrifice."

She says it with such gravity that Clarke simply stares at her for a long moment. Lexa looks at her sidelong, just barely raising an eyebrow, and Clarke barks with laughter.

"That's mean," Clarke says through her laughter, "Making fun of the poor guy."

"I don't know what you mean, Clarke," Lexa says, turning back to the water, the corner of her mouth hiding a smile, "I'm acknowledging a noble spirit." She hooks the worm quickly, considerately hiding the process from Clarke by turning away slightly, and casts her line into the water. 

The soft zipping sound the fishing line makes as it whizzes through the air makes Clarke's throat catch. It's the sound of too short summer days with her father, standing on the dock as he tried to teach her to cast, taking long breaks while he untangled her line from whatever seawood or bracken she'd managed to land in. "You've got a real knack for it, kiddo," he'd say, "Pretty soon you'll be hooking empty cans-- maybe even an old boot!" Clarke shakes her head and swallows down the feeling, balling up her fists and smiling.

She turns her focus on Lexa who is leant forward in concentration, gaze never leaving the bobber, her hat shading her eyes a darker green. A dragonfly skims above the water and Clarke wishes she'd brought her sketchbook.

"So were you going to call me?" Clarke asks and Lexa startles, the fishing pole jerking in her hands.

"Yes," Lexa says slowly, "I was nervous, but I was going to call you."

"Okay," Clarke says, rubbing her knees, "because I know this is like, the second time I've ambushed you, and I don't want you to feel like you can't get rid of me."

"Clarke," Lexa cuts her off softly, "I want to call you."

Clarke nods and leaves it at that. The heat of the rising sun is burning off the morning mist and Clarke begins to feel warm under her leather coat. She shoves the sleeves up, but doesn't take it off. Every now and then Lexa reels her line in and recasts, the picture of patience as she waits for a bite. Clarke opens her box of poptarts and chews on one contemplatively. She offers half to Lexa, who rests it on her knee, breaking off small segments every now and again. When Lexa finally does get a bite Clarke whoops and nearly stands up in the boat before she remembers that would be a bad idea. Lexa brings it in expertly, a shimmering, gasping bass that flicks its tail, whipping lake water at Clarke's face. Lexa unhooks it and loops a stringer through its mouth, dropping it back in the water to keep the fish fresh.

The excitement is short lived, and Lexa casts her line again, going back to her stillness and pensive stare. Clarke watches the brightening water and finds she doesn't mind the quiet.

"Did you ever receive your daisies?" Lexa asks after several minutes of silence, lifting her pole just a touch to bring the line away from a patch of reeds.

"No," Clarke replies, "My mom ran interference on him."

"Good," Lexa nods. 

Clarke stares at the bobber lifting in the soft waves, chin in her hands.

"You know he drove four hours to get here?" Clarke says, and she hears the bitterness in her own voice, "He was always big on romantic gestures. Not so big on fidelity, I guess." Clarke sighs and rubs at her coat sleeve, "And he has really bad timing."

Lexa glances at her curiously and then looks away. Clarke feels suddenly self-conscious.

"What about you?" she says quickly, forcing another smile, "Any terrible ex stories?"

Lexa's shoulders stiffen and Clarke immediately wants to backtrack.

"Yes," Lexa replies, "but they'd scare away the fish."

"Okay," Clarke says, taking the out, "then tell me about flowers."

Lexa's expression softens and Clarke falls a little in love with the way that looks, the tension leaving her eyes and the line of her jaw unclenching. A cloud passes over the sun and the sudden shadow makes everything gentler.

"What would you like to know?" Lexa asks.

"I looked up spiderwort. Did you know there's a flower language?" Lexa nods and Clarke continues, "It means momentary happiness."

"Was that the question?"

"No," Clarke says, and then, "Why is it your favorite?"

"I should have a reason?"

Clarke nods, "You seem like the type that would."

Lexa gives a short shrug, "I didn't know the meaning when I saw it. I like it though. It's true."

"You think so?" Clarke asks with a frown.

"Yes," Lexa replies, "Happiness is transitory."

"All happiness?" Clarke asks.

"That has been my experience, yes," Lexa says, and the sky seems to darken further with her words.

Clarke thinks it may have been her experience as well, but the conversation is getting dangerously close to a place that Clarke does not want to visit, and she hurries to divert it.

"Your favorite flower though, that's kind of a big decision," Clarke teases, "Shouldn't you make a pros and cons list? Weigh your floral options? Know a little more before you get so invested?"

"Maybe I should have," Lexa says and looks to Clarke, "but there are some things you know you like when you see them."

Clarke thinks she may be blushing, but she's saved by a pull at the line, the bobber hopping beneath the water and the fishing pole jerking in Lexa's inattentive hands.

Lexa's focus snaps back to the water and she reels the fish in-- a tiny bluegill no bigger than Clarke's hand, with a spined fin and iridescent green stripes.

"He's so small," Clarke says and tries not to sound wistful about a fish she's only known for five seconds.

Lexa glances at Clarke and then with a sigh lowers the fish carefully back into the water. They watch it flash away, a streak of silver-green just beneath the water.

"Thank you," Clarke says.

Lexa nearly smiles, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"Don't thank me," she says, "We had a deal that I would catch something for you. I have decided that one was yours." Lexa finally manages the full smile and Clarke thinks it was well worth the wait, because Lexa's eyes are perfect when she does.

Clarke smiles back. She thinks the way Lexa is looking at her lips means she has seen something she likes. The clouds over the sun have made Lexa's eyes opaque, a solid marble green, and Clarke thinks she might like a closer look when the first drops of rain begin to fall.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke can't seem to stop laughing at their predicament. The instant the rain begins to fall and Lexa cocks her head back to regard the clouds with a frown, Clarke takes one look at her face and bursts out laughing. Thunder booms and Lexa scowls and Clarke laughs, having trouble starting the engine she is so compromised. Clarke finally manages to get the engine to catch and they start towards the shore, their wake swallowed by shifting sheets of rain. The engine grinds through the sound of thunder and the clouds are an almost uniform bruised blue. Lexa is doing her best to put away and organize her gear without it getting soaked when the engine gives out with a sputtering cough in the middle of the lake.

"I think we ran out of gas," Clarke says, and Lexa can see her fighting ineffectively against a grin.

"Tourists," Lexa sighs, water dripping off the brim of her waterlogged cap.

Lexa grabs one oar and Clarke settles herself next to Lexa on the other and together they haul themselves towards shore, their course markedly zig-zagging as they struggle to row in sync.

"You have to skim the surface, Clarke. Skim--" Lexa says for the third time, water dripping down her chin and tickling across her collarbone.

"Lexa, I swear if you say the word 'skim' one more time I'm throwing you and the oars into the lake," Clarke says.

Lexa raises an eyebrow, "That would be an ineffective plan, Clarke. How would you get back to shore without oars?"

"I'd just have you push the boat," Clarke replies.

Lexa sighs deeply and Clarke laughs again, her oar twisting uselessly out of the water.

"Face it, Lexa, we've lost this race," Clarke says, "And we're already as wet as we're going to get. So why hurry?"

Lexa has to admit this much was true, and they settle into a slower but steadier pattern of rowing. Lexa tries to ignore the way her heart jumps every time Clarke's shoulder knocks against hers as they row. The rain is the warm summer type, heavy droplets making the surface of the lake a constant shifting static. Lexa sneaks frequent looks at Clarke as they row, the other girl's blonde hair pressed damply to her neck, a grin on her face as she watches the water with obvious pleasure, blinking away rain as it streams down her.

Lexa's arms are tired when they finally make it to shore and she ships the oars with relief. She jumps into the shallows, grabbing at the the aluminum siding of the boat to drag it towards the rocky beach. Water sloshes up to her waist, but it hardly makes a difference with how drenched she already is from the sudden summer storm. In a moment Clarke has hopped out of the boat too, splashing yet more water onto Lexa as she helps drag the the boat onto the shore, their hands overlapping as they work, the touch of Clarke's skin against Lexa's wet and nerve-wracking and lovely.

When Lexa's feet slip out from underneath her on the shifting stones she splashes forward in the water, head slipping under briefly and the taste of warm and gritty lakewater in her mouth. Clarke grabs her shoulders and hauls her upright, pulling them close together as she helps Lexa find her balance. Clarke's arms are around her shoulders and Lexa's hands have found Clarke's hips for stability and their faces are too close. Clarke is still smiling but her blue eyes have gone serious, the same stormy shade as the sky. Lexa shivers, though she is not cold.

"Do you have some kind of inner ear problem," Clarke asks, and Lexa has never been so fixated on a mouth before, "or are you just this way around me?"

Lexa licks her lips, "You do seem to unbalance me."

Clarke smiles wider and pushes Lexa's damp curls away from her forehead and behind her ear.

Lightning strikes, shifting the world blue-white for a moment, Clarke's eyes turning a shocking ice blue. Clarke yelps at the crackle of electricity in the air and they both jump, momentarily pressing together tighter. Clarke's body against hers is warm and soaked.

"We should get out of the water," Lexa says.

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, already leading Lexa towards the shore, fishing Lexa's fallen cap out of the lake as she does.

Lexa collects her tacklebox and gear, bass still on its stringer, and hikes after Clarke as she leads her up the lawn and towards a bright white house with a patio ringing its back. She steps under the awning and out of the rain with some relief, finally able to assess how truly drenched she is now that she's out of the deluge. Clarke is already twisting water out of her hair and staring out at the rain, and Lexa watches as stray beads of water trace down Clarke's arm and neck. Lexa is very aware that she's carrying a fish on a string and almost certainly looks half drowned.

Lexa clears her throat, "I should go."

Clarke doesn't even bother with a response; just rolls her eyes and takes Lexa by the arm, leading her into the house, sopping shoes, fishing pole and all.

The door takes them into an enclosed breezeway where Clarke carelessly kicks off her shoes, Lexa following suit a hesitant moment later. She props her fishing pole against the wall and sets her tackle box beneath, at a loss for what to do with the bass. Clarke notices her frozen look and waves her inside.

"In here," she says, "you can put it in the sink."

The kitchen is immaculate, and Lexa feels a deep embarrassment at the amount of water she's dripping on the floor. The countertops are spotless marble and the appliances are a gleaming, fresh out of the box stainless steel. If Lexa hadn't suspected Clarke's wealth before, one glimpse into the kitchen assured her of it. Clarke fills a teakettle with water before gesturing for Lexa to use the sink, turning and flipping on a range top that Lexa guesses can't have been used more than a dozen times.

"Tea, coffee, or cocoa?" Clarke asks while Lexa slips the bass into the sink.

"I'm fine," Lexa says, drying her hands on a woefully inadequate kitchen towel.

"Coffee it is," Clarke replies.

Lexa decides it is simply easier to nod along with Clarke's demands. Something about the sound of falling rain, the damp cling of her clothes, and the easy slide of Clarke through the kitchen makes Lexa want to give in to whatever might happen.

"Hope you like instant," Clarke says and flashes her a smile, turning to busy herself with the cupboards. Lexa has long since decided Clarke's smile is her favorite, however fast and fleeting it is.

"There are beach towels in the hall closet. Grab a few for us?"

Lexa nods and pads softly to the front entryway. Everything in the house-- from wicker balls to rustic lanterns to the cool blue and white palette-- looks like it's been lifted from a "Better Homes and Gardens" catalogue, lake house edition. It's tasteful, if not particularly personal and Lexa tries not to roll her eyes at the bowl of seashells that were absolutely not collected on any beach within 50 miles of here. Lexa retrieves the towels from the closet, unable to stop a sigh of contentment as she pulls one around herself. 

As she moves to return to the kitchen, she catches sight of the one personal touch she's seen during her brief tour. At the foot of the stairs is a family photo, framed in sanded driftwood. Clarke is in the center, sporting a completely unselfconscious smile in a pastel shirt and white pants, her hair pulled away from her face. Lexa assumes the couple behind her are Clarke's parents, her mother the woman with a somewhat careworn smile, the lines of concern around her mouth worn in. It's her father that shares Clarke's thousand watt grin, his large hand on his daughter's shoulder and happy crows feet around his eyes. He's wearing a brown leather jacket that looks very familiar to Lexa, and it only takes her a moment to place it as the one Clarke wore on their impromptu fishing trip. The overall impression is warm despite some pretension. They look happy. Lexa has long since trained away her jealousy at moments like this, and a picture that might have made her heart break years ago only causes a dull twinge and a sense of emptiness that Lexa pushes aside as she walks purposefully back to the kitchen.

When she returns Clarke has laid out mugs, and is pouring steaming water into them. A bag of sugar, a bottle of coffee-mate, and a quart of milk are placed in a meticulous line on the counter beside the mugs.

"Coffee bar," Clarke says, gesturing expansively to her set-up, "better than a Starbucks even." Clarke frowns, "Not that you have one of those in this town."

"It went out of business," Lexa replies, "There was no one to keep it going during the school year. Most townies prefer Tom's Donuts for their coffee."

Clarke makes a face and Lexa can feel herself beginning to smile. She curbs it beyond a twitch at the corner of her mouth and explains seriously, "Tom's is an institution."

"I'm sure it is," Clarke replies, "My family has spent summers here since I was eight and nothing seems to change."

"We don't put on much of a show for lake tourists," Lexa says a little stiffly.

Clarke traces a finger hesitantly around the rim of her mug, "Not what I meant."

Lexa nods, smoothing hackles she hadn't meant to raise, "I know."

Clarke nudges a mug towards Lexa.

"Peace?" she offers. 

Lexa nods, and hands Clarke a towel, which the other girl takes with an audible sigh before wrapping it around herself. Lexa leaves her coffee black, the gritty acidity of the instant brew burning on her tongue. Clarke's coffee is practically white with the amount of cream she's poured in and Lexa thinks her tongue must be sweet with sugar. Lexa shakes her head and takes another bitter gulp of coffee.

"Come on," Clarke says, shivering under her towel, "let's get you out of those wet clothes."

Lexa is beginning to realize there is little point to arguing with Clarke-- she doesn't seem to take no for an answer-- and Lexa decides that her energy is better spent elsewhere. Clarke holds a finger to her mouth as they ascend the stairs.

"My mom is still asleep," she says and Lexa nods, crouching a little, though her posture doesn't seem to make her any more or less silent.

Clarke creaks the door open to her room, slipping inside and Lexa fidgets nervously in the doorway, unwilling to intrude. What she can see of the room looks the same as the rest of the house-- picture perfect and magazine pristine-- but there are glimpses of things that look like they might actually be Clarke's. There is a guitar resting on the bed and Lexa wonders if Clarke plays it before she sleeps or when she wakes up. There are also a number of mugs scattered around the room, and Lexa thinks Clarke must be something of a warm beverage addict. Twinkle lights frame glass panelled doors leading to a widow's walk. Everything Lexa sees, she enjoys.

Clarke bounds back to the door and presses a pile of clothes into Lexa's hands.

"Bathroom's across the hall," she says, and Lexa nods, retreating.

Lexa peels off her wet clothes and pulls on the shirt Clarke handed her, a dusty blue cable-knit sweater with a gray stripe running through it. It's oversized on Lexa, and the texture is strangely overstimulating, but it's not an unwelcome feeling. She pulls on the pair of soft sweatpants Clarke gave her with 'Georgetown' emblazoned down the leg and revels in her newfound warmth.

When Lexa leaves the bathroom Clarke is already dressed in purple flannel and a pair of scrubs. She's toweling her hair dry, and the gold returns to her curls as the damp leaves. It reminds Lexa of sunrise. Lexa clears her throat and Clarke turns to her with a smile.

Lexa's mouth is dry and she searches for words, "Have you managed to keep your spiderwort alive?"

"Ginger?" Clarke replies, "Yes, she's doing fine."

Lexa smiles and raises an eyebrow, "You named your flowers?"

"Apparently talking to your plants is good for their growth. Ginger needed a name if we were going to chat," Clarke says, and she brushes her hair back to disguise a blush, "I'm surprised the plant professor didn't know this."

"That's not a real profession, Clarke," Lexa replies, "And I doubt the benefits of plant whispering are proven science."

"Just wait until you see her," Clarke says, "She's thriving, thanks to me."

Clarke leads her down the hallway to a room where the roof slopes at an angle and pulls Lexa inside.

"Welcome to my studio," Clarke says and she rolls her eyes at her own faux grandeur.

It is a room that, had it not been raining, would have been filled with light. There are tacked up drawings and sketches across the whole room, narrow paths through half-finished projects on the floor. A framed oil painting of Clarke's parents is on one wall, next to a pencil drawing of a young man with dark skin and soft eyes, something like adoration in his gaze. There are even a few pictures of Finn that Lexa can see are tossed in what looks like a discard pile in the corner. The potted spiderwort is set on the window seat, and true to Clarke's word, there are multiple blue flowers blooming. There is a half finished watercolor of the plant on an easel opposite the window.

"This is why you wanted a plant," Lexa says, pressing her fingers into the soil with a nod of satisfaction at the damp feel of it. Apparently Clarke had remembered to water it recently.

"Yeah," Clarke affirms, "A summer project of mine."

"For school?" Lexa asks, and she can imagine Clarke as an artist, fingers a thousand colors from her work, hair carelessly streaked with paint every time she brushes it out of her eyes.

"No," Clarke says, shaking Lexa from her thoughts, "I'm pre-med. Not much scope for the imagination there, unless I want to get creative with the cadavers. Which would be unethical. And illegal."

Lexa raises an eyebrow and Clarke grins, suddenly grabbing Lexa's wrist and leading her towards the window seat.

"Here," Clarke says, "sit."

Lexa does, careful not to jostle the spiderwort, sliding it carefully to the opposite end of the window seat. Rain streams across the window behind her, fast tadpole trails against the glass.

"What should I do?" Lexa asks, shifting uncomfortably.

"Just look natural."

Lexa grimaces, and Clarke smiles.

"Not that natural."

Lexa struggles to rearrange her face and settles on a light frown.

Clarke takes up a position cross-legged on the floor and stares at Lexa a few moments. She seems to come to a silent decision and finds her materials-- eschewing the paints and instead pulling out a thick pad of drawing paper and fishing a stick of charcoal out from the muddle of her art supplies. Something in Lexa tenses at the disorder of paints and pencils, but Clarke seems to know just where everything is placed.

"Hold still," Clarke commands and Lexa has no trouble obliging-- stillness has never been a problem for her. She does not know where to settle her eyes though, and they naturally come to rest on Clarke, observing her as she works.

Clarke's entire demeanor changes while she sketches, all traces of teasing and silliness gone, replaced by a serious line to her mouth that turns down every now and again as she runs the charcoal across the page. Her eyes study Lexa almost impersonally, like her gaze takes in all of Lexa and her secrets and sorts through them impassively. Lexa is used to a critical gaze-- Anya's soul-stare is something of a legend-- but Clarke's look unsettles her in a different way. Lexa feels a shift in her chest, a pang of longing that maybe Clarke does see right through her, and Lexa surprises herself with how much she seems to want that.

Lexa isn't sure how much time passes, but it is enough for the quality of light in the room to change-- the gray of the rain fades and the hypnotic sound of its falling ceases, replaced by gold streaming through the window. The light warms Lexa's skin and catches the blue in Clarke's eyes as the artist studies her. Clarke bites her lip and squints between her sketchpad and Lexa, finally putting her charcoal down and rubbing blackened fingers against her neck absentmindedly.

"Here," she says, "Take a look."

Lexa stands from her perch on the windowseat, stretching her arms as she approaches Clarke, who hands her the sketch with a small smile and turns away with a creator's shyness. Lexa studies the portrait carefully.

She looks vulnerable in the sketch, the sweater's size making her look small, the slip of it off her shoulder exposing skin there. Her posture is rigid and tense, and for some reason this makes her look even more fragile, like a glass teetering on the edge of a table. It's the look Clarke has captured in Lexa's eyes that concerns her the most, her expression apparently not as neutral as she thought. There is that look of longing she experienced, that desire to be seen, laid out plainly on the page. She cannot be sure whether Clarke understood her feelings in the capturing of them, but it's enough to make her itchy with anxiety, the borrowed sweater suddenly too rough against her skin.

"Are you alright?" Clarke asks, and Lexa is suddenly aware that she has remained silent too long. She nods once and hands the portrait back to Clarke.

"You are very talented," Lexa says, when she finds her words.

"Well," Clarke says, and bites her lip, "you stayed very still."

The way Clarke is looking at her both calms Lexa's anxiety and makes her heart race in a new way. Lexa reaches out a hand before her mind catches up to stop her, and Clarke looks at her quizzically.

"You have," Lexa pauses, "charcoal on your neck."

"Oh," Clarke says. She pauses and then takes a very deliberate step closer, leaning into Lexa's touch.

Clarke's skin against her twitching palm is cool and soft, and Lexa wants nothing more than to run her fingers down its line, the intensity of her desire making her whole arm ache with the weight of holding back. Clarke closes her eyes and cocks her head to the side, pushing more firmly into Lexa's hand and now Lexa's whole chest aches with want.

Lexa takes a careful step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Clarke!" A woman's voice carries shrilly from downstairs, and Lexa and Clarke jump apart, "Why is there a fish in my kitchen sink!"

Lexa's heart is racing and Clarke laughs. Lexa thinks she will never forget that sound.


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke doesn't know what to wear. 

She has no idea where Lexa and her crew are planning on taking her, and she knows that looking like a lake tourists at a local bar could result in weakly poured drinks and dirty looks on the dance floor. In an effort to find an outfit that will let her blend in, Clarke has torn through her closet and the suitcase she had yet to unpack for the past half hour without coming to a decision. With a glance at the time on her phone and a resigned sigh, Clarke finally settles on a soft gray summer dress. It could pass for casual or classy, depending on the attitude she carries herself with, and Clarke trusts herself to read the environment.

While she fiddles with her hair, Clarke scrolls through her phone, rereading the brief text conversation she'd had with Lexa. From anyone else the short and matter of fact replies might have seemed terse or unfriendly, but Clarke has heard Lexa speak-- she was just unremittingly formal in any medium. Despite her desire for an uncomplicated good time tonight, part of Clarke is still in a state of pleasant nerves at the thought of spending the evening with Lexa.

There is a cold layer beneath her happy anxiety though, like the shadowed part of the lake; a patch of sudden cold and depth where thoughts of her father and Wells live. The chill of it makes Clarke catch her breath every time she stumbles through those parts of her heart.

Last night her mother had actually attempted to cook-- an event that culminated in limp pasta and over-salted sauce-- and insisted that she and Clarke eat together in the dining room. They’d sat silently for twenty minutes while Clarke tried to choke down her lukewarm meal as quickly as possible, only for her mother to set her fork down with a sigh and tell Clarke that she would “need to make time to grieve.”

Clarke had nodded through her mother’s prepared speech, knowing that while nothing her mother said was technically wrong, they were built too differently to approach losing Clarke's father the same way. Abby had been solid all through Jake's diagnosis and treatment, through the parts where it looked like he'd beat it and then through the sudden swift fall before he died. She'd taken a sabbatical over the summer, like she'd scheduled her breakdown, like she could feel everything she needed to in three months and go back to being solid again for the sake of her position at the hospital and for Clarke. Abby watched home movies and cried, slept late and cried, ordered takeout and cried. Clarke didn't think her mother's grief was insincere, but it did feel as though she was purging it from her system, and Clarke didn't know how to do that. 

Clarke had spent all her tears on nights sitting with her dad at the hospital, reading him old science fiction books and trying not to let her voice catch as she watched how hard it was for him to breath. She'd used all her tears on the days he would smile almost like his old self, only to sink again just as quickly. She'd used her tears when her dad had squeezed her hand for the last time. Once he was gone and Clarke had to stand beside her mother at the funeral, thanking people for coming and pointing them towards the refreshment table, all her tears had dried up. Their absence left behind a salt flat expanse inside her, a dead zone she couldn't find her way out of. It was better not to try.

Which was why she'd texted Lexa immediately after her disastrous dinner, insisting that Lexa take her dancing at her earliest convenience. It turned out Lexa was either a quick planner or a constant partier-- one option struck Clarke as far more likely-- and had texted Clarke that she and "several friends" would be going out next evening to the town over. Clarke had waved off Lexa's offer to pick her up, not wanting to deal with the hassle of her mother, and suggested she'd rendezvous with them somewhere in town.

Lexa had promptly texted her the address of Lakeside Liquor, a run down store next to the the gas station and Family Dollar. It isn't particularly far away, and Clarke doesn't want to deal with the logistics of her car and drinking, so once she is satisfied with her wardrobe she tugs on a pair of silver flats and slips out the front door. She decides to only text her mother only once she's long gone.

The night is warm, foreshadowing the many muggy summer nights ahead, but for at least this evening there is a pleasant breeze blowing as Clarke walks to the liquor store. Even in a small town, the light pollution is enough to dim the stars, but Clarke can make out Orion's Belt and the Big Dipper, constellations her father had painstakingly pointed out to a younger Clarke at her continued insistence. Clarke pulls her eyes from the sky and focuses on the asphalt.

The road is cracked, ribboned with lines of relayed tar that cover the worst of the weathering. It makes Clarke's steps feel heavier and the warm weight of the darkening evening feel more oppressive. Clarke has the urge to start running, like she can outpace this fearful feeling that's pressing down on her, but she forces her steps to even out, takes quick breaths. 

With a strained sigh she turns into the parking lot of Lakeside Liquor and into the wash of blue-white light from its aging sign. Lexa is staring towards the building, her back to Clarke as she stands rigid, hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

"Lexa," Clarke calls as she approaches.

She turns and Clarke catches her in a hug that surprises them both. Lexa stiffens in her arms before she relaxes, winding one arm around Clarke's waist and holding her carefully. Lexa is solid against her and Clarke feels safer than she should have reason to.

"Hello, Clarke," Lexa says.

"Hi," Clarke breathes against her. 

Someone clears their throat and Clarke realizes they are not entirely alone. She regretfully pulls away from Lexa, finally getting a good look at the other girl.

Lexa is in black skinny jeans and a steel blue button down, the muted color making her green eyes paler. Her sleeves are carefully rolled past her elbows, and she's wearing the best and most ridiculous digital watch Clarke has ever seen. Her hair is pulled back in a series of braids that Clarke would have thought were too fanciful for the girl if they hadn't been so carefully patterned and regimented.

There are three others standing nearby, presumably Lexa's friends, and they watch Clarke with a guarded curiosity.

“Clarke,” Lexa says seriously, “this is Indra. She is my most sensible friend.”

Indra gives a small nod, managing to look both bored and suspicious at the same time. If Clarke had thought that Lexa held herself stiffly, it is nothing compared to how Indra stands with a sort of barely restrained animosity. Her spine is rigid and her head tilts up at an angle of seemingly permanent disdain. Clarke has a feeling that they’ll both be happiest if they steer clear of each other.

“And this is Nyko,” Lexa says, “he is my least sensible friend.”

Nyko doesn’t look affronted by this assessment at all; simply shrugs and takes it with a smile. He’s burly, and slightly bearish, long hair pulled back in a ponytail and a beard just to the side of being messy. There’s a spiraling arrow tattoo on his shoulder, spreading blue-black from under the cut-off sleeve of his t-shirt. Clarke wonders if he designs his own body art and resolves to ask him on a night when she plans to be more sober.

“Lexa never listens to my insensible plans," Nyko says, "but you know her a week and convince her to go clubbing. You’ll have to teach me to be a better bad influence on her." 

Clarke grins and nods as Lexa sighs loudly. 

"I'm also the local medicine man, if you or your lake friends are looking for a summer prescription of anything," Nyko finishes with a wink and an imaginary toke.

Clarke laughs.

“I’ll pass the word on,” she promises.

Lexa shakes her head in exasperation and Clarke has a hard time imagining what Lexa would be like high as the introductions continue. 

“This is Lincoln. He is usually sensible, but he met a girl two weeks ago and is less so now,” Lexa raises an eyebrow at her friend and Lincoln looks abashed.

Lincoln is enormous-- football player, body builder huge-- and he has wonderfully shy eyes. He is also ridiculously handsome, with the kind of face Clarke would draw for a Classics class. Clarke would think he’d be more confident with his physique, but the way he ducks his head down to listen when Lexa talks tells her that Lincoln is not an aggressive soul. He rubs a hand across his mostly shaved head as he shakes Clarke’s hand gently.

“Hi,” is all he says, and Clarke already likes him enormously.

“Wait up, babe! I got the pre-game supplies!” a tiny bounding figure yells as she nearly tackles Lincoln. "Oh my god, Clarke!" she says, nearly dropping the bottle of bottom shelf vodka in her hands, "What the fuck?''

"Octavia?" Clarke says, "Hey!"

"You know Octavia?" Lexa asks, looking between them.

"Hell yes, she knows me," Octavia replies, brushing her long brown hair back. "Clarke is my idiot brother's bff and occasional fuck-buddy," Octavia gives her a glare that Clarke knows is mostly teasing, "She's eaten my breakfast cereal before her walks of shame."

Lexa's eyebrows shoot up and her eyes flick to Clarke and then away again just as fast.

"I always made sure to leave you the toy, O," Clarke says, and smiles before taking Lexa's hand, threading their fingers together. As with their hug, Lexa stiffens momentarily before she melts and squeezes Clarke's hand back. Clarke knows that things are not so serious between them that she should feel obligated to reassure Lexa, but all the same she wants to. And besides-- Lexa's hands are calloused in all the right ways. Clarke runs her thumb across Lexa's hand and Lexa looks as though she'd like to smile if her crew wasn't there. Octavia stares at their interlocked hands and a devious grin grows on her face. Clarke can only hope she isn’t planning on regaling Lexa with more of Clarke’s escapades-- there were certainly enough stories for her to tell.

Octavia was crude about it, but she hadn't been lying. Clarke had known Bellamy Blake most of her life. He'd been an unrepentant dick during middle-school, but he'd mellowed considerably in high-school. When Wells had died Clarke had spiraled and Bellamy's group had been the closest to rebellious at her private school. Bellamy had indulged her need for a wild side, and more than that, he had been kind towards her-- even protective. Bellamy knew about grief, had a good ear for listening, and an empathetic heart under the gruff. There were many things Clarke regretted about her out of control period after Wells' death, but sleeping with Bellamy wasn't one of them. They were too similar to work long-term, but there was a fondness between them that Clarke treasured. She hadn't spoken to him about her father's death. Telling her ghost of Wells had been all she could handle.

"Are you here for the summer?" Clarke asks Octavia, shoving away thoughts of death on a night when she wants to dance.

"Yeah. My aunt owns a house on the lake. She insisted I stay with her so she could 'groom me for polite society.' You'd think I was raised under the floorboards with the way she talks about my 'unladylike behavior.' If it wasn't for this specimen the summer would be a complete bust," Octavia finishes by punching Lincoln in the stomach. Her fist practically bounces off his abs and he grins down at her affectionately.

Clarke remembers Octavia as a bit of a hellion, and she is equal parts amused by and pitying of any woman trying to tame the younger Blake sibling.

The group stands in silence a minute, and Clarke can’t tell if it’s just the awkwardness of introductions or if serious group stillness is just how Lexa’s friends roll.

“Okay, well this parking lot is super fun and everything, but let’s drink and ride!” Octavia says, unscrewing the bottle of vodka and taking a ludicrously large swig of it. She screws up her face and roars when she finishes, passing the bottle to Lincoln, who takes an equally large shot with no added theatrics. He holds the bottle out to Clarke who takes it tentatively, steeling herself for the burn.

“God, I hate vodka,” Clarke says, closing her eyes and swallowing it down. “Oh, fuck,” she splutters, “that was worse than I thought!”

Lexa squeezes her hand slightly and looks at her with some concern. Clarke hands her the bottle with an embarrassed smile.

“I’m okay,” Clarke reassures her and Lexa nods seriously as she takes the vodka. 

Clarke isn’t surprised when Lexa doesn’t so much as wince at the taste of the alcohol, passing the bottle on to an excited Nyko. Indra drinks nothing, and Clarke understands why when she pulls a set of keys from her jeans, motioning the party to the single most tired looking pick-up truck Clarke has ever seen. The beast is moss green, with rust red accents at the wheel wells and around the windows, even eating a sizeable hole above the passenger side door. Surprisingly, there are no dings or scratches, and Clarke decides that whatever the age and disrepair of the vehicle, Indra must be a very safe driver.

“Shotgun!” Nyko yells, scrambling into the front of the truck.

“Oh, fuck no!” Octavia yells, “we’re not getting blown off the back!”

Octavia grabs Lincoln’s sleeve and pulls him along, yanking the truck door back open and shoving Nyko over. She manages to clamber on top of Lincoln and close the door behind all three of them as Indra sighs and narrows her eyes, stalking to the driver’s side.

“I think we will be riding in the back, Clarke,” Lexa says, and now that they are alone she smiles fully. 

As she watches the curl of Lexa's lips, Clarke wonders what it will be like to kiss her. Clarke knows that she will, and the anticipation is part of the pleasure. Lexa looks nervous and intent, that look of overly serious vulnerability in her eyes that Clarke is already becoming so familiar with. Lexa's grip on Clarke's hand tightens as she pulls Clarke closer.

Octavia rolls down the window and screams at them, "Get in the car, gaymos, I wanna dance!"

Lexa raises an eyebrow and looks to Clarke, mouthing, "Gaymos?"

"Octavia has no filter," Clarke explains with a wry smile.

Lexa nods. 

"I can already tell what a pleasure it will be to drink with her," she deadpans, and Clarke laughs, tugging them towards the truck.

Lexa performs a complicated ritual with the rusted tailgate, finally wrenching it open with a heavy thump. She gives Clarke a hand-up into the back and Clarke smiles at the gesture, hauling Lexa in after her. They settle in at opposite ends of the truck and Lexa hits the back window twice to let Indra know they're settled. The truck starts with a sputtering roar and jerks forward, and Clarke nearly tumbles over. Lexa throws out an arm to steady her.

"It's not the smoothest ride," she says, and there is something apologetic and self-conscious in her tone.

"It's a great ride," Clarke replies, "and I know that if we run out of gas at least we won't have to row."

Lexa smiles slightly, "Careful Clarke-- you don't know how many times I've had to help Indra push this truck down a hill."

The ride is pleasant until Indra turns off onto the highway, the old truck vibrating as it picks up speed. Its not long before the wind is screaming in Clarke's ears, and her hair is flying in her face, tears at her eyes from the acceleration.

Lexa frowns at her discomfort, braids twisting around her own shoulders in the wind. There is a rolled up blanket in the back, and Lexa lays it on the bed of the truck, motioning for Clarke to join her. Clarke takes her hand and Lexa pulls her down, stretching out beside her. The wind is less shrill this way, and though the motion makes Clarke dizzy, it is almost comfortable. The highway is dark, the stars are out, and their subtle motion as the truck streaks beneath them is hypnotic.

Clarke looks over to Lexa, only to find the other girl already watching her, a soft look in her green eyes. Clarke leans her head on Lexa's shoulder and closes her eyes, resting in the feeling of Lexa against her side and how their feet knock together with the sway of the truck. Clarke had meant to avoid stillness tonight, afraid of all the noise in her heart, but with Lexa beside her she feels calmer than she has in months. They are both quiet, and Clarke counts Lexa's steady breaths as her shoulder rises and falls.

When the truck slows at a turn off, Clarke sighs and keeps her eyes stubbornly closed, sorry that the journey has to eventually end. They rumble along for another few minutes, traffic lights bright against her eyelids, before slowing and coming to a stop. Lexa sits up, and Clarke follows her motion with a resigned frown.

Octavia tumbles out of the truck with a whoop, and Clarke can see from the level of the sloshing bottle in her hands that the front of the truck has been well and truly pre-gamed. Lincoln follows after his girl, the way he has to squeeze under the frame of the door somehow making the beast of a truck look like a toy. Nyko follows, looking even more tipsy than Octavia, manic grin on his face. Indra exits the truck with a look of bloody murder on her face, catching Lexa's eye.

"You are welcome," she growls, and stalks after the rest of the group.

The club they've arrived at is sprawling, with the look of small town strip mall to it, all uniform gray concrete and pillars. Clarke can already hear the music, straddling the line between top 40 and country.

"I warn you Clarke-- this is a terrible club," Lexa says.

Clarke smiles and pulls Lexa after her.

"It's not about the place," she says, "it's about who you're dancing with."


	5. Chapter 5

"Tequila shots!" Octavia yells, shoving the shot glass into Lexa's hand and passing another to Clarke, "Gotta start the night out right!"

The music is loud and the bass is shuddering through Lexa's chest and up to her teeth. There are people pushing past her in the dark, knocking by her stiff shouldered stance. Every step takes extra effort with the way the floor grabs at her boots, sticky and layered with a whole geological history of partying. It's uncomfortable and she's nervous and she keeps waiting for something to go wrong.

"If we're starting with tequila, what are we going to end with?" Lexa asks, and Clarke shrugs, a half smile on her face before she downs the shot. Lexa sighs and follows along, containing her grimace at the taste. Aside from her nerves, Lexa is worried about Clarke-- worried about how she's throwing herself at this night, about how she smiles but does not look happy. Lexa doesn't know her, and she can hear Anya's voice in her head telling her not to get involved, but everything about Clarke is a magnet, pulls at something in Lexa she thought had long since rusted to dust.

Octavia, satisfied that she has witnessed their imbibement, takes her own tequila shot and dances away, grabbing hold of Lincoln and spinning him with her towards the dance floor. Nyko is already out there, flailing his arms like a drunken bear, clearing a two foot circle around him. Indra has her arms up on the bar looking sour, projecting an impenetrable sphere of animosity, and Lexa knows her friends have found their spots for the evening.

"Can I get you a real drink?" Lexa asks as she collects their shot glasses, and Clarke nods, catching hold of her arm to follow her to the bar. Lexa can't seem to stop her initial petrified reaction every time Clarke touches her, and she can feel her arm go rigid under Clarke's hands.

Clarke looks apologetic, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep invading your space. I can stop."

"No," Lexa shakes her head, "You shouldn't."

Clarke smiles softly and looks away, surveying the club as they wait for the bartender's attention. Lexa knows there isn't much to look at. She's been to The Ark a dozen times in the past five years, and she swears it gets more dismal with each visit. Her first time had been a week after her sixteenth birthday, when Anya had smuggled her past a bouncer and bought her a drink of something strong and on fire. Anya had held her hair while she'd thrown up in the bathroom, the knees of Lexa's jeans digging into a floor grimy enough to make her sober self sick. Her half-sister had mercilessly mocked her for the next three days that Lexa spent on the couch, hungover and self-pitying, subsisting entirely on the saltines a not-completely-heartless Anya brought for her. Lexa's subsequent visits to the club had been less memorable, but they somehow always left a bad taste in her mouth-- a leering man who wouldn't stop offering her a drink, a homophobic slur whispered as someone shoved past her, a drunk girl who kept touching Lexa's hair. 

Despite her feelings about it, The Ark was a necessary evil-- everyone needed a dark place to drink and lose themselves in, to shrug off the realities of their town and lives. Sometimes the weight of the life Lexa lived pressed down on her; like she could see the sky descending closer to her while she watched, the very air heavier in her lungs. Nyko would watch Lexa closely and suggest The Ark whenever he thought she looked too tense or when Anya had been gone on a shipment too long. Nyko was courteous enough to let Lexa disguise her need for a pressure release by couching his request as a plea to go dancing, insisting that he could feel his gay mating dance skills atrophying. Indra would come because she followed wherever Lexa led, and her hard eyed stare could bully Lincoln into coming along too.

It wasn't Lexa's first choice for a place to spend an evening with Clarke, but the blonde had asked for dancing and drinking; The Ark could supply both, and Lexa's presence could perhaps protect her from the less desirable elements of the club. Lexa looks to Clarke, taking in the preoccupied way the girl stares across the room, eyes not bothering to track any movement. Lexa hopes tonight eases whatever is weighing on Clarke's mind. Her study of the blonde is interrupted when the bartender finally sidles up opposite them, giving them a curt nod in greeting.

"Whiskey ginger," Lexa says.

"Rum and coke," Clarke adds.

The bartender nods again and sets about mixing, sliding the drinks across the damp bar to them.

With the first sip of her drink Clarke seems to make an effort of will to shake off the stillness that had fallen on her, flashing a smile that Lexa could almost believe was entirely sincere. 

"Time to dance," Clarke decrees.

"I'm not a very good dancer," Lexa hedges, fiddling with the glass in her hand, condensation making her palms clammy.

"Nonsense," Clarke says, taking her free hand and pulling Lexa towards the dense crowd of dancers, "everyone can dance."

Five minutes on the dance floor later and Clarke laughs, swinging Lexa's stiff arms, "Wow. Okay, you weren't kidding."

"Thank you, Clarke," Lexa says, rolling her eyes. Lexa feels perpetually off-beat, boots coming down on half-steps, arms held awkwardly bent at the elbows and shoulders rigid. Nyko spins by with a grin. He has the decency not to point and laugh, but perhaps only because he knows Lexa could break his finger. Lexa tries a simple side-step and nearly takes out another dancer in the process, Clarke's arms shooting out to steady her and bring her back to solid equilibrium. 

"Right, suspected undiagnosed inner ear problems--I forgot," Clarke says as Lexa grimaces and attempts another awkward few steps. "You have many good qualities, Lexa," Clarke struggles to keep a straight face, her expression forced into an exaggerated frown to keep from laughing, "Dancing just isn't one of them."

"I told you this," Lexa says with a resigned sigh.

"Maybe more alcohol will help?" Clarke muses, already tugging them back towards the bar, "This will require more research."

Two and a half drinks later, Lexa's movements are somewhat less jerky, but no more coordinated, and Clarke dances literal circles around her. Lexa doesn't mind, more than happy to have something to focus on beside her off-tempo steps. Clarke doesn't have many fancy tricks, but she moves with confidence, and as the alcohol sets in her earlier somberness fades away, and she dances with a kind of joy Lexa finds hypnotic. The beat of the music settles curled in her stomach and the warm electricity of alcohol slides through her limbs and Lexa doesn't entirely hate being on the dance floor.

Clarke musses her hair with her hands, backing into Lexa, who wraps her hands around her waist instinctively to keep her balance. Clarke sways in her grip and Lexa sighs into her shoulder. Lexa closes her eyes and the alcohol makes the world spin under her boots, Clarke pressed against her in the blind tumble of her mind, soft cotton of her dress against Lexa's arms. She opens her eyes again and the dizziness refuses to entirely leave her.

"Let's go somewhere we can sit down," Lexa says, practically yelling into Clarke's ear.

Clarke makes no verbal response, but nods emphatically and throws an arm around Lexa's waist, letting her navigate them through the crowd of dancers. Lexa's insides seem to seize with such a close proximity, but she shoves the feeling aside, protectively shielding Clarke against overly enthusiastic movers and the splashing of overfull drink glasses.

Lexa directs their retreat to the club's attached sports bar, a building decision she has never understood, as the thumping bass from the club creates a constant thudding underscore to whatever game is playing, and the demographic in the smaller bar skews at least five years older. Despite the incongruity, it's a calm eye in the storm to retreat to, and Lexa is grateful for it, settling them both on the peeling green pleather stools at the bar.

"Mixed nuts!" Clarke exclaims, "Oh, thank god."

"Clarke!" Lexa says sharply, grabbing her wrist to halt the other girl, Clarke's hand already dug into an assortment of shrivelled almonds, peanuts, and one sorry lone cashew.

"What?" Clarke demands with drunk petulance, and Lexa immediately lets her hand go, heat creeping up her neck.

"Sorry," Lexa explains, "But I promise you don't want to eat those. Think of how many other hands have touched those nuts."

Clarke snorts with laughter and Lexa frowns quizzically. 

Clarke takes one glance at her confused expression and loses it entirely. Through gasps of laughter Clarke manages to choke out, "So what you're saying is these nuts have been well handled?" 

"Clarke--" Lexa groans, refusing to let herself laugh at such a terrible joke, the alcohol in her own system nearly betraying her with a smile.

Clarke wipes at the tears in her eyes with one hand and gestures to the men at the opposite end of the bar with the other. "Do you--" she fights through laughter to finish, "Do you think those guys over there have gotten their hands on these nuts?"

"Okay," Lexa says, "You're right. You need food."

Clarke's laughter finally dissolves into snickers and repeated mouthing of "these nuts," which Lexa does her best to ignore. She waves the bartender over and orders two soft pretzels and a side of cheese dip. He gives Clarke a curious look when she asks if he "recommends these nuts," and Lexa gives him a shrug and a shake of her head. The bartender heads back into the tiny kitchen alcove to prepare their order, and while they wait Clarke's hilarity slowly subsides, though her sobering up is not so serious that she doesn't flick a few peanuts in Lexa's direction.

"You are somewhat of a high-maintenance drunk, Clarke," Lexa says, brushing a peanut off her pant leg.

"I am a great drunk," Clarke says, "The best. You should count yourself lucky."

Lexa allows herself a small smile, "I do."

Clarke looks a little startled, a flush in her cheeks that isn't from alcohol as she pushes her hair back. Lexa worries she's exposed a piece of herself to Clarke-- unable to control the sincerity in what should have been a flippant comment-- and wonders why despite the fear, she doesn't seem to mind confiding this soft target to Clarke. Again she hears her inner voice of Anya warning her not to become compromised, but either the alcohol or the lateness or Clarke herself drown out her step-sister's warnings. Before Lexa can overanalyze her feelings, the bartender returns with their pretzels, setting them on the counter haphazardly and returning to stare at the corner TV with his other patrons. Clarke's eyes light up at the presence of food.

"This is like some kind of beautiful dream," Clarke says rapturously, pulling apart her salted pretzel and dipping it in the cheese bowl.

"And people think lake tourists are classy," Lexa says, trying not to smile at the sight. She can't smile at everything Clarke does-- she might never stop.

"Ha ha," Clarke says, licking cheese off her fingertips, "I'm going to ignore that slur because you bought me carbs."

Clarke chews thoughtfully as her eyes scan the sports bar, taking in the faded Pacers regalia, the heavily scuffed tables, and the quartet of men with their eyes glued to the UFC match on the wall mounted flatscreen, their clenched fists making little truncated jabs every time they witness a solid hit. Clarke's eyes go suddenly wide and she nearly chokes on an overlarge bite of pretzel.

"Oh my god, Lexa!" Clarke finally manages around her mouthful of hot pretzel, "it's your game!"

Clarke gestures wildly towards the opposite wall where an ancient game cabinet of "Bass Fishing Challenge" stands, flashing through pixelated representations of fish flopping through blocky water. There is sizeable dent in the front, just at the height a frustrated boot might land.

Lexa regards the game critically, "I've never played that, Clarke."

"No, but you've lived it!" Clarke argues, "You're probably a natural!"

Lexa chews methodically on her own pretzel and shakes her head, "I don't think that's how it works."

"Well, if you're afraid to risk it, I guess I understand," Clarke says, facing away with feigned indifference, her eyes still sneakily regarding Lexa, "it is your honor at stake after all."

"My honor is unimpeachable," Lexa replies, standing with purpose and pushing away her stool to start towards the game, only the slightest tipsy hitch in her walk.

"Do you use bigger words the drunker you get?" Clarke asks, following along behind her with their pretzels in one hand and cheese bowl in the other. Her gait is still markedly more unsteady than Lexa's, and Clarke leans heavily against her once they get to the cabinet.

Clarke sighs contentedly and leans her head on Lexa's shoulder, curls brushing against Lexa's neck, a tickling, startling sensation that makes Lexa clench her fists. Lexa clears her throat and focuses on watching the game animation, eyes narrowing as she tries to get a feel for the gameplay, even as she's distracted by Clarke's warm weight at her side.

"We should make a bet," Clarke's head suddenly shoots up, her eyebrow raising slyly as she begins to smile.

Lexa covers her own impulse to match Clarke's smile with an exaggerated frown, "Has no one told you it isn't safe to make bets with strangers?"

"You're not a stranger," Clarke says.

"I don't think you know my last name," Lexa replies.

"Would I suddenly have a deep and intimate understanding of you if I did?" Clarke leans more fully against her and tips her head back. Lexa feels herself warm and her throat tighten. Clarke's hair is so gold, and there is a strand of it curling across her forehead that Lexa's fingers ache to smooth back.

"It's Woods," Lexa finally supplies when she recovers from the temptation of Clarke's hair.

Clarke closes her eyes and steps back, holding up her hands like she's conducting a seance, half-eaten pretzel held aloft like a holy book.

"Woods," she repeats to herself with exaggerated mysticism. After several beats of silence Clarke opens her eyes again, and Lexa is surprised by how blue they are-- something about the alcohol and the neon lighting brightening them even further, the few seconds they were closed making the reality of their blue hit Lexa more forcefully, like she may never pin down their shade. 

"Nope," Clarke says, and Lexa jerks back to reality, unnerved by how she keeps slipping away from it, "Don't feel like I know you any better."

"Strangers still," Lexa replies softly.

Clarke takes another bite of her pretzel, "Maybe middle names are the real badge of intimacy."

Lexa shakes her head, "No. Middle names are always terrible."

Clarke laughs, "You don't know mine! Maybe it's great."

"The odds aren't in your favor," Lexa shrugs, "Statistically, middle names are catch-alls for family obligations."

Clarke bites her lip, "Okay, now I have to know yours."

"That will not be happening."

Clarke sighs dramatically and waves away the argument, "Fine. We'll make a bet so we won't be strangers. Whoever gets the highest score gets to ask a question the other must answer honestly."

"This sounds like a scam to get my social security number."

Clarke leans against the game cabinet nonchalantly, rapping her knuckles against the siding, "I mean, if you aren't confident in your ability to catch simulated bass..."

Lexa narrows her eyes and rolls her sleeves more firmly above her elbows. Clarke grins and pulls her pretzel apart.

Lexa regards her challenge. It looks simple enough; there are a few buttons, but the central control seems to be an overlarge cue ball that spins when she runs her palm against it. Lexa fights the urge she feels to sanitize it and instead digs her wallet out of her pocket, sliding a quarter into the slot and pressing the start button.

Lexa takes a deep breath, selecting a level and lure, already annoyed that there isn't a bait selection screen. Within moments of casting her line expertly into a rocky alcove practically teeming with fish, Lexa gets a bite. A surge of triumphant pleasure fills her as she begins to reel her catch in, confident that her victory will be a complete shut-out. Before she has the fish on the line for more than three seconds, the tension bar zooms into the red, fishing line snapping before Lexa can even react, artificial fish flashing away.

"What!" Lexa demands, "Why am I fishing with inferior equipment?"

"Tick-tock," Clarke says, pointing to the timer running out as she snags what is left of Lexa's pretzel.

Lexa glares at the game, recasting with a viciousness that sends her line into the reeds. Desperately, Lexa reels back in, trackball spinning under her palm as the seconds tick down.

"Game Over!" the screen declares, moments after Lexa manages to recast. Clarke catches Lexa's eye and grins ecstatically.

"This game is wholly inaccurate," Lexa says, pushing away from the arcade box with disgust.

"Sore loser," Clarke sings, and Lexa frowns.

"Do better, then."

"I will. Lend me a quarter?" Clarke asks, and Lexa rolls her eyes, sliding another coin into the game.

Clarke flexes her hands and rolls her neck, and Lexa half expects her to hop a few times like a boxer in the middle of her elaborate warm-up ritual. Clarke focuses on the screen, the last of her tipsiness fading away as she surveys it with a kind of clinical coolness, the same look she had when she sketched Lexa. Lexa has a feeling that it is the same look Clarke will have during surgery once she graduates, and she's fascinated by the sudden shifts in mood Clarke seems to control. It almost makes Lexa jealous; she tries to exercise an iron control over her emotions, but they always feel in imminent danger of slipping past her grip anyway.

The moment the game starts Lexa knows she's in trouble. Clarke casts her line immediately, skating her lure along the water to tempt a patch of fish that immediately chase after the bait. Clarke leads the largest, snagging a bite and expertly playing the fish back and forth, keeping the tension low and leading it inexorably towards her blocky boat. When she lands it her cheery avatar hoists the fish in the air and a weight counter proclaims it a 15 pounder and offers Clarke another stage selection. Clarke turns away from the screen with a smirk.

"I could continue," she says, "but I wouldn't want to embarrass you."

"Are you some kind of arcade savant?" Lexa asks, unable to keep the confused awe out of her voice.

"I'm going to be a doctor, remember? Hand-eye coordination is my thing," Clarke waggles her fingers to illustrate. "You should see me on the claw machine-- I can clean those things out."

"And this is why you don't make bets with strangers," Lexa sighs.

"You aren't chickening out, are you?"

Lexa crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow, "I will honor our agreement, Clarke."

Clarke regards her solemnly and Lexa fights the urge to fidget and twist her watch under the scrutiny. Clarke's playfulness has switched intensity once again, landing on a range that makes Lexa nervous, like she has bet more than she bargained for.

"Do you want to know my middle name?" Lexa asks, anxious for something easy.

Clarke shakes her head. "Small change," she replies, still staring intently.

Clarke lapses into silence again and Lexa makes an impatient sound, "So?"

"You like me," Clarke says.

Lexa blinks and her heart stutters, "That's not a question."

"Because I already know the answer," Clarke says, "you like me a lot."

Clarke's eyes are an almost neon blue in the light of the arcade game, and Lexa doesn't see the point in lying, so she simply nods. 

"Yes."

Clarke moves closer to her, sober and serious, her voice low, "I like you too."

Lexa's palms ache, like it hurts not to touch Clarke, "I know."

Clarke smiles, shaking her head and breaking the tension, "I'm not going to kiss you yet. I probably taste like cheese and salt."

"A winning combination," Lexa says, trying not to feel disappointed.

Clarke leans closer to her, speaking into Lexa's ear, "And I think the creepy guys at the bar who are staring at us would freak out."

Lexa glances over to the bar, and sure enough, the quartet of UFC men are surreptitiously watching. Lexa sighs, "I told you this was a terrible club."

Clarke takes her hand, and for once Lexa doesn't flinch at the contact, "I'm glad you brought me anyway."

"Me too."

"Take me home?"

"Of course," Lexa says, and for the first time in perhaps her whole life, she is happy to have lost a bet.


	6. Chapter 6

Octavia refuses to leave until she's had a chance to dance in a cage.

Clarke is beginning to feel the night wear thin, the buffer between sadness that alcohol, dancing, soft pretzels, and softer touches had built is crumbling as she sobers and the club grows wilder. Perhaps the real reason she feels her content slipping away from her is the absence of Lexa by her side. Everything seems to weigh less when Lexa's around, like the inch she has on Clarke allows her to shoulder the weight of the sky off Clarke. Now they are apart and the atmosphere of the feverish club is pressing damply against her as Clarke wrangles Octavia while Lexa collects Nyko. His arm is thrown heavily across Lexa's shoulders, a dizzy grin on his face and the majority of his weight leaned against Lexa's steady stance. Indra shadows behind them looking bored and impatient, the only sober point in a storm. 

Octavia is tugging at Clarke's arm, pulling her through the sweaty crowd towards one of the raised platforms with the barred cages that those who are particularly drunk and confident can swing between. Clarke is absolutely not in the mood to cage dance, but Octavia is insistent. Bellamy's sister has all of his stubbornness and none of the intense loyalty and measured thoughtfulness that let's Clarke sway him. At the moment Clarke doesn't have the wherewithal to learn Octavia's suggestible points and attempt to talk her down, so instead she simply tries to keep up with Octavia's frenzied steps, knowing the sooner they dance the sooner she can leave.

"Come on princess-- cut loose! It's not a night out if half the club hasn't seen you behaving badly!" Octavia yells as she pulls Clarke along, muddling through a group of girls who shriek hysterically as the song changes. Clarke rolls her eyes and Octavia grins and attempts a clumsy wink, "And maybe Lexa would like to see a little bad behavior."

Clarke allows herself a quick backwards glance at the mention of Lexa, eyes scanning through the crowd until she catches sight of her. Lexa's dark eyes are tracking her and Octavia's progress across the dance floor, and Nyko is shouting something into her ear. Lexa nods to her drunk friend without looking as though she's actually listening, her eyes still glued to Clarke. Clarke smiles and feels her chest ache before she looks away.

"Can't you get Lincoln to behave badly with you?" Clarke asks, as she allows herself to be pulled up the steps to the platform. Octavia stumbles and Clarke catches her waist, keeping the trashed girl from taking them both down the stairs.

"Lincoln is peeing!" Octavia yells, pushing away from Clarke and grabbing the bars to pull herself forward, "He's had to pee like eight times! He's fucking huge but he has the bladder of an ant!"

Clarke shakes her head-- Lincoln is dodging a bullet here, Clarke thinks as she follows reluctantly after Octavia.

The cage is not entirely empty. Hanging on the back bars, arms gripping the metal wide, shoulders pushed forward like he might pounce, stands a man. His hair hangs in front of his eyes and Clarke cannot see much else of his face in the darkness of the club, except she can tell he is smiling. 

Clarke's skin goes cold and she's suddenly very aware of the sticky feel of her hair against her neck, the way her cotton dress is clinging to her, hyper-conscious of every move she makes. Clarke isn't a stranger to this sensation and knows when to trust her instincts, a year of ignoring her feeling for danger in the wake of Wells' death making her doubly aware of it now.

"Octavia maybe we should save this for another night," Clarke says, catching the other girl's wrist.

Octavia snatches her hand away with drunken belligerence, "Get the hell off me, Clarke. I'm not going 'til I've had my dance."

The man releases his grip on the bars and moves forward as an oblivious Octavia begins to move to the beat of the music. Clarke grits her teeth and steps behind the dancing girl, making a barrier of herself. If anything does go wrong, Clarke feels more competent being the one to deal with it than she would trust a drunk Octavia to be.

Octavia backs into her, tossing her hair wildly, and Clarke sighs.

"Let me teach you a few moves to use on Lexa, princess!" she says, grabbing Clarke's hands and putting them at her waist. Clarke's stomach drops as she feels the man step closer to them, a tingling feeling down her spine as he leans forward.

"You two putting on a show?" he says, and Clarke would like to elbow him right in the gut for the way his breath tickles at her ear. Clarke stifles the impulse with difficulty; technically he's done nothing that warrants violence yet, but Clarke can't shake the feeling of menace.

"No," Clarke says, infusing the word with as much finality as she can, hoping the man takes it as a blanket statement for any further propositions.

"Then how about we put on the show instead?" he says, sidling closer, his hand at Clarke's waist, sliding across her dress.

Clarke's furious grip around his wrist only lasts a moment before his hand is ripped out of her hold, his body yanked backwards with a force that sends Clarke stumbling. Clarke spins around to see a fist twisted around the man's shirt collar, pulling at him viciously. She can hear the thudding sound of his back meeting the cage to match his shocked exhale.

Lexa peers through the bars, standing just outside with green eyes like a tiger about to make the killing lunge, teeth bared. When Clarke catches her gaze, Lexa composes herself, and Clarke watches all that anger in her face siphon away, the set of Lexa's mouth turning impassive and her eyes blank, like watching fire escape into a dead vacuum.

"Would you like to take care of him, Clarke?" Lexa asks, and if Clarke had just met her she wouldn't have heard the effort in Lexa's voice as she subtly ground out her words.

"What the hell," he snarls, twisting in Lexa's grip and grabbing her wrist, "Get off me!"

Lexa grabs his protesting arm and twists it behind his back, and Clarke can tell from the way he gasps and arches on his feet that Lexa has twisted his wrist upwards, the muscles from his shoulder to his hand shrieking. With growing concern, Clarke sees that several dancers have begun to notice the tussle and are beginning to back away, giving Lexa looks that she is either unaware of or ignoring. Clarke worries it will only be a matter of time before one of the bouncers that are easily three times Lexa's size begin to notice what's going on. Clarke's nerves aren't up for a messy club ejection tonight.

"Oh shit, what did I miss?" Octavia demands, finally breaking out of her revelry to take in the struggle happening behind her, "Whose ass is Lexa going to kick?"

"No one's," Clarke says, "It's not worth it, Lexa, okay? Let's just get out of here."

Lexa looks away and her grip loosens. As she steps back Clarke feels like some depth has been exposed in Lexa and then abruptly covered again, like sheet metal and concrete pulled over a sour well.

Lexa's victim stumbles away, rubbing his shoulder with a scowl. Clarke can see the look of wounded aggression in his eyes that means he'd like to tear into someone. She catches his eyes and glares, her voice and stare as steady as she can make them.

"Don't," she says, vindicated by his unsettled look as he hears the steel in her voice, "Just don't."

"Fucking bitches," he snarls and stalks past her, pushing past her shoulder aggressively and Clarke has to restrain the urge to sucker punch him in the neck.

"Yeah, you better run," Octavia sneers at his retreating back, weaving slightly as she threatens, "Pussy!"

"Okay Octavia, I think that's all the bad behavior I can handle tonight," Clarke says, looping an arm around the other girl's waist and wrapping Octavia's arm around her shoulder to support the drunk girl's unsteady weight. Lexa steps forward, her bearing hesitant.

"Can I help, Clarke?"

Clarke shakes her head, adjusting Octavia's unwieldy and squirming weight against her, "I've got it."

"Lincoln!" Octavia shrieks, catching sight of her huge boyfriend muscling his way through the crowd, "You missed it! Lexa and Clarke nearly killed a dude! It was hot!"

Lincoln looks horrified and a little abashed as he rubs his neck, like a squire who'd lost sight of his Don Quixote for a minute or a boy who'd let his puppy off the leash only for it to come back dripping with mud, burred and wild.

"Is everyone okay?" he asks Clarke.

Clarke nods, and Lincoln's eyes flick to Lexa, who stares with an empty gaze into the crowd. He frowns, and his concern makes Clarke more nervous.

"We're fine," Clarke says, needing to get everyone out of here as soon as possible. She nods to Octavia, "Just take care of this one."

"Gimme a ride, babe!" Octavia says and Lincoln nods, turning around and bracing his legs.

Octavia disentangles herself from Clarke's grip and launches herself off the platform, leaping onto Lincoln's back. He barely seems to registers her weight, pausing only to adjust her death grip around his neck and then trudging forward, clearing a path for the rest of Lexa's crew through the dance floor. Indra joins them, half carrying Nyko and radiating levels of irritation Clarke hadn't believed were possible. 

The bouncer rolls his eyes when they leave, Octavia whooping and slapping her palms against the door frame from her abnormally high vantage point. Lexa doesn't walk beside Clarke, lagging half a step behind and adjusting her gait to stay there even when Clarke slows down. Clarke's ears ring when they finally step out of the club, the heat of the night turning muggy, making everything from the sweat on her neck to the alcohol on her tongue feel cloying. The feeling makes Clarke want to pull out of her skin and jump into the night cool lake.

Lexa looks similarly antsy. They've fallen behind the rest of their troupe; Octavia insisting that Lincoln race across the asphalt while she throws her hands in the air, while Indra is methodically pounding Nyko's back as he retches by a light pole. As they walk across the otherwise deserted parking lot Lexa's eyes keep skating away from her, and her fists are clenched so tight Clarke thinks they might be shaking.

"I could have handled him," Clarke says finally.

Lexa's mouth twitches down and her shoulders rise. She doesn't meet Clarke's eyes when she speaks, "I know. I didn't mean to intrude."

"No, that's not what I meant," Clarke says, taking hold of her arm, wishing Lexa's skin under her palm didn't feel so tense, "I mean you don't have to worry about me."

Lexa meets her eyes finally, and Clarke is taken aback by the glassy look to them, by the way that Lexa swallows heavily before she speaks.

"That is much harder than you realize," she says.

There is something about the way Lexa's words fall that strikes a chord in Clarke; as though her hurt echoes along the same resonance as the one Clarke has been carrying around since her father, since Wells. Clarke often has the sensation that she's crushed that feeling of hurt so far down inside herself, made it so compact and dense, that she's weighed down by her own personal gravity. The way Lexa looks so heavy in her boots right now and the tiredness around her eyes makes Clarke think there is a similar anchor somewhere inside Lexa.

Clarke stares down at her hand around Lexa's arm. She feels like the place where oceans meet, that line of awkward turbulence between two shades of blue, a disharmony even in unity. This was not how the night would end.

Clarke keeps tight hold of Lexa's arm, reels the other girl carefully to herself, Lexa shuffling awkwardly toward her across the asphalt. Clarke takes a deep breath and wraps her arms around Lexa's waist, feeling the other girl twitch beneath her touch. She lays her head on Lexa's shoulder and breathes slow until she can feel Lexa relax, the stutter in her breathing smoothing out to match Clarke's own even pace. Lexa's neck smells like green things-- damp soil and wet shingles and slick pavement. After an age, Lexa's own arms close around Clarke, fingers clasping together at Clarke's back, tentative and sweet. Clarke sighs. She feels safe, and her sadness feels enormous, but it doesn't feel like decay in this moment-- doesn't feel like the molder and mildew of the treehouse she shared with Well's or the inevitable moss that will creep across her father's headstone-- it just feels like grief, and grief would pass, however long it decided to stay.

"I like you so much," Clarke breathes into Lexa's neck.

She can see Lexa swallow.

"You've said so," Lexa says, "Did you think I needed reminding?"

Clarke likes the way she can see Lexa's throat move with her quiet words, the hitch at the end of her sentence and the reflexive tightening of her jaw. There are so many lines to Lexa and Clarke could paint a portrait just of her neck, all in greens and charcoal. Clarke is so overwhelmed by the feeling of that nearness that she cannot help but press her lips to the place in Lexa's neck where she can see the girl's pulse beating, wondering if her skin is warmer and softer than the summer rain that drenched them the morning of the lake. It somehow is, and Clarke sighs against her skin in appreciation. Lexa let's out the quietest gasp Clarke has ever heard, and Clarke's heart hammers at the sound.

"I think I'd like to tell you many more times," Clarke says.

Lexa nods softly.

"I know that feeling, Clarke."


	7. Chapter 7

_'Tell me something about flowers,' the text reads._

Lexa narrows her eyes at her phone. She tends to squint when she's drunk, but it's the only physical concession she will make to the alcohol that's still making her blood thrum. The words make her body feel warm, though the air around her is chilly and she can feel the goosebumps on her skin, a steady shiver through her body that hasn't let up since she said goodbye to Clarke. It's past midnight and she left Clarke at the door of her house over an hour ago, but it wasn't five minutes after Lexa had reluctantly climbed back into Indra's truck that her phone had lit up with a text from Clarke. Lexa's fingers had been cramping with their constant conversation ever since.

Lexa thinks about how to answer the question, tapping a booted foot rhythmically against the faded pastel tiles, trying to find a fact that might have a chance of making Clarke smile, or perhaps even laugh. Lexa's ears are still ringing with the memory of that sound. She finally taps out, _'Did you know you can eat marigolds?'_

Lexa crunches on a cinnamon twist while she waits for Clarke's reply. Indra sighs loudly. They are the only thing Indra will deign to eat from Taco Bell and she loathes having them stolen. Lexa ignores this fact and the waves of irritation she can feel directed her way as she steals another. Lexa has already finished the veritable fast food feast that five dollars can buy and, unable to afford more, is content to thin out Indra's portion. Indra endures the slight with the same stony grace she'd use to weather the end of the world. Lexa feels herself smile at the sugar on her tongue and Clarke's next text.

_'Haha!’_ Clarke's reply comes back, _‘I used to eat plants as a baby. My mother thought it was the cat until she saw me ripping up grass one day.'_

Lexa has a sunny vision of a tiny Clarke, loud and fat and a frequent laugher, ragged handfuls of grass in upraised fists, ready to devour the world. Lexa has always been solemn, even as a child, and she thinks her younger self would have been terrified and awed of Clarke-- a shadow that kept it's distance. There must be pictures of Clarke, tidily kept albums with dates and cursive inscriptions that would give Lexa a glimpse of how brightly she must have grown up, books full of smiles that Lexa has never seen but would happily catalogue.

Lexa's thoughts are interrupted when a moment later Clarke texts again.

_'What do marigolds taste like?'_

Lexa considers this, remembering the day she had read about marigolds being edible. She had traced the pictures of the flowers in her book with her fingers, wondering if maybe that brilliant orange would stick to her skin. The flowers were carefully and neatly labeled, and that satisfied some deeply orderly part of her psyche. She'd been so excited by the prospect of eating a flower that she'd walked to the corner grocery store with the display of ever wilting flowers and bought herself a bouquet. She'd dashed home, clutching the flowers tightly, poured oil in a skillet and tossed them on high heat. She'd nearly burned down the apartment and what remained of the flowers was scorched and ashy tasting, leaving her fingers and teeth sooty, her eyes watering from the smoke and raccooned from rubbing at them. Lexa had been eight years old and terrified. Anya had been furious, and that stove had never been quite right again.

_'Not very good.'_ Lexa texts.

_'You have a way with words,’_ Clarke replies and Lexa can picture Clarke rolling her eyes.

With a sudden fervency Lexa wishes she did have a way with words, the way Clarke had a way with paint and pencils. It had meant something to her when Clarke had held up that portrait mirror she'd drawn of her, and Lexa wishes she had something to give back, something that would say; I see you, you're lovely.

_‘You are a very fine dancer.’_ she texts instead, chewing at her lip in frustration with herself.

_'And you're a terrible one. Don't worry, my skill can carry us.'_

_‘I have every confidence that you can, Clarke.’_

_‘I'd say you showed some promise, but you can't build a relationship on a foundation of lies.’_

Lexa's spine tingles at the casual way Clarke mentions a relationship, and Lexa has to take her shivering insides firmly in hand, tell herself that Clarke's choice of words could mean anything really. There are few things Lexa hates more than being embarrassed, and exposing her heart is one of them.

_‘You should sleep, Clarke. I have a feeling you will be in pain tomorrow.’_

_‘I only get hangovers if I've been making out with the wrong people.’_

Lexa remembers how soft Clarke had been, how she had been smiling and then suddenly serious, run her thumb softly across the inside of Lexa's wrist where Clarke had held on to pull her closer--

_‘So I should feel incredible tomorrow.’_

“Enough,” Indra says, “I can't stand that idiotic text alert and your loopy smiles any longer. Nyko has probably drowned in his own fluids in the back of my truck and I will need time to dispose of his body before I work tomorrow.”

_‘Goodnight, Clarke,’_ Lexa hurriedly texts, before shoving her phone in her pocket and trying not to look too abashed-- it wouldn't do for Indra to see her so thrown. Lexa hadn't even known she'd been smiling. 

In a sudden hurry, Lexa gathers all the trash from their table, piling it precariously on a tray while the teenager manning the cash register looks relieved that she won't have to kick them out personally in the few minutes they have left until the 1am closing time.

Lexa's back is turned, shoving wrappers into an uncooperative trash can flap when the door to the Taco Bell flings open, bringing scuffling shoes and laughter and a voice Lexa recognizes.

"Well if it isn't the fucking queer crew," Nia says.

The cool of the restaurant feels like it drops another twenty degrees and everything goes quiet, like the clarity before a car crash. Lexa's eyes flick to Indra, who is standing stock still, and Lexa gives a slight nod towards the back door. Indra could make it out if Lexa delayed them, gave her time to start the truck and get herself and Nyko out of here. Indra glares and shakes her head. Lexa sighs, closes her eyes a moment, and then turns to face them.

They're out in force tonight. There's sullen, brick wall Roan, a shaved bald and grinning Quint, the ever sneering pair of Echo and Ontari, and a greasy looking boy Lexa doesn't know who has a self-satisfied expression that makes Lexa itch to kick him out a window. And there is Nia-- the ice queen herself, red haired and blue eyed and grinning like Lexa is already bloodied and bent before her.

Lexa feels competent to handle any one or two of Nia’s crew-- perhaps even three if it was Quint involved-- but not all six, even with Indra at her back. She'd rather not involve Indra at all. There was a fear turned grudging respect throughout the town for Lexa's half-sister, Anya, and it shielded Lexa somewhat in these run ins with Nia, but Indra had no such protection. There was already enough animosity directed towards Indra's family and the frequently graffitied and glassed red brick mosque they maintained. She didn't need to shoulder any of the fallout from Nia's grudge with Lexa as well.

"Indra--" Lexa murmurs.

"Not a chance," Indra hisses back.

Nia never lets up her crazy grin and Ontari whispers something to Echo, who begins to laugh hysterically. Roan yawns and looks away and Quint reaches into his pocket as Lexa counts her breathes, because control starts with the small things, and she will need every ounce of self-awareness for the coming moments.

"We should speak outside, Nia," Lexa says, and her voice feels like cold metal on her tongue, as sharp and detached as she can make it.

Nia abruptly stops smiling and lunges forward, her voice loud and shaking with anger.

"I don't talk to dykes," Nia says, spitting the last word. The way Nia moves reminds Lexa of the chained dog down the street from where she lives; like there is only so much hatred a body could contain before it became larger than the vessel holding it, spilling out in noise and fury, pulling against every restraint to tear something apart. Nia holds a moment, seems to regain her calm as she finds her unsettling smile again. She gestures towards the door expansively, fingernails red as her hair, "But if you prefer to bleed outside instead of in, that's just fine."

Lexa nods stiffly and walks forward, Indra several steps behind. Nia holds Lexa's eyes while she moves, the ice queen still as a statue except for a twitch to her smile. Nia's crew parts before Lexa, shuffling aside with grins and laughter and slurs. Lexa pushes open the door, and the moment she can feel the muggy air on her skin she can sense the first blow coming her way.

Lexa ducks instinctively, throwing herself against the door to keep it open for Indra who manages to lunge through, shrugging her jacket off as Quint pulls at it. Someone grabs at Lexa's arm to drag her back in, but Indra has her other arm, and wrenches Lexa out of their grasp and through the door. Lexa kicks it closed behind her, hoping for a moments head start to regroup.

Lexa's eyes skate around the empty parking lot, Indra's ragged truck the only sign of life she can see nearby. Nyko is still passed out in the back and they can't make a run for it without him. Lexa thinks fleetingly of the tire iron beneath the front seat, but shakes the thought away-- if this escalated any further, someone would end up dead, and she can't risk it being Indra or Nyko. 

The muggy air drags into her lungs, the unpredictable flicker of the street light makes her vision hard to focus, and all Lexa wants in this moment is to close her eyes and remember the one perfect moment on Clarke's stoop where the girl's lips had touched hers. 

_Clarke held her hand the whole ride back, running her nails across Lexa's palm and wrist so that Lexa's skin never stopped tingling, aching with a want that exhausted her to contain._

Quint slams the door open and Echo and Ontari stream out of the restaurant, Roan striding purposefully behind them. Indra stays close to Lexa, their backs to the truck to keep at least one angle protected. Nia and the nameless boy follow at the rear. The ice queen always prefered to watch these rumbles rather than participate, occasionally hurling abuse from the sidelines before stalking in to claim a victory.

_Lexa watches the tangle of Clarke's hand with hers and feels the weight of Clarke's stare in the quiet car. The highway is pitch black, and there are no other cars for miles. They stay in this quiet sphere of solitude, even as they rumble back into town, even as Lincoln and Octavia hop out of the back of the truck to walk the rest of the way home, even as they idle at an empty intersection where the red light seems to last forever._

Roan comes for Lexa and she ducks under his first heavy swing, slamming her fist into his side. Roan staggers momentarily, but it's like hitting a rock, he barely registers the pain, swinging at her again with a fist that Lexa doesn't fully manage to dodge, the blow clipping the side of her head, making her ears ring. Indra growls something incoherent as Ontari and Echo come at her and Lexa itches to help, but Roan keeps backing her up, Lexa's quick side-steps barely keeping her out of range of his hands.

_Indra doesn't believe in the radio, so the only sound is the rattling of a twenty year old engine and Clarke's husky voice directing them down the back roads to her lake home. Lexa stops listening to the content of Clarke's sentences and focuses instead on the sound, the way Clarke breathes out her words, and the way her mouth hitches up at the side when she notices Lexa watching her lips._

Someone grabs at Lexa's hair, jerking her to the side and instinctively Lexa slams her elbow back, catching someone in the gut by the way she can hear the breath escape her attacker. She grabs the wrist still snarled in her hair and bends it back as far as she can, yanking the girl forward and sending her towards Roan with a kick to the back. Ontari slams into Roan with a yelp and he bats her aside carelessly.

_Lexa walks Clarke to her door, both of them moving so slow it feels like they're dancing through the thick humidity, keeping time to the occasional croaking song of the lake frogs. Halfway up the driveway Clarke tangles Lexa's fingers in her own and begins to swing their arms slowly, and for once the movement of Lexa's body is loose and fluid, like the hot night and the alcohol and Clarke have finally melted her._

Lexa's back is against the truck and there's nowhere for her to retreat to. Roan scowls and rolls his shoulders. Lexa's eyes dart to the side to see Indra and Echo rolling on the asphalt, Indra's nose bloody and her teeth red but at least on top for the moment. When Roan takes another swing at her Lexa slips to the side, grabs a handful of his sleeve and pulls him forward, using the momentum of his punch to unbalance him, to get behind him. Lexa punches him in the side of the throat and Roan's hand goes up instinctively to protect his windpipe. She kicks in the back of his legs and he has nothing to balance his fall, simply slams to his knees while Lexa grabs his hair and slams his head into the back of the truck.

_They make it to Clarke's front steps and Lexa suddenly feels not just wistful, but somber. Clarke's eyes look sad again, and they dart between watching the door, her shoes, and Lexa._

_“I don't want to say goodnight,” Clarke says, and there's is a catch in her voice that startles Lexa, makes her step forward instinctively and hold Clarke's hand tighter._

_“There is always tomorrow, Clarke,” Lexa says, and she wants to say ‘and the day after, and the day after, and the day after,’ but she doesn't._

_“I know. It's the inbetweens that get me,” Clarke says with a sad smile._

Ontari leaps onto Lexa's back and Lexa nearly goes down, but she maintains enough of her balance to fling herself backwards, landing on Ontari instead of asphalt. When she jumps to her feet, ready to kick Ontari's kidneys in, a sharp yell from Indra stops her. Lexa's eyes find her and Indra is staring past Lexa at the truck, her eyes fearful. Lexa turns to see Quint standing in the bed of Indra's truck, holding a delirious looking Nyko up by the front of his shirt, a knife at his throat.

"I said fucking stop or I cut this asshole!"

Lexa holds up her hands and the moment she does Ontari kicks her legs out from under her, sending Lexa sprawling forward on the asphalt. Lexa stays down, fixing her eyes on Nyko's and trying to communicate calm.

_For a long beat their eyes meet and Lexa can tell Clarke is about to ask her to stay, and Lexa is about to accept, but something fails to catch; the porch light flickers, or a frog croaks too loud, or Lexa's hand shakes too much in Clarke's grasp and the moment slides by and they are left in its disjointed wake, awkward and near strangers again._

_“Okay,” Clarke says, and she sounds embarrassed, “I should go in.”_

_Lexa is furious with herself, livid that she has somehow fumbled this situation and she can feel the night unravelling in her hands, the course of her entire summer diverting around this one missed opportunity and she cannot stand it._

_Lexa steps forward, reaches for Clarke, and pulls her into a kiss._

_Clarke's lips are soft, and after a moment of surprise, Lexa can tell she is smiling into the kiss. Lexa would love to see that smile, but she can't bear to break away from Clarke._

_Clarke kisses her back with relief, reaching to fist her hands at the front of Lexa's shirt, pulling her closer._

_The night is still too hot, and the porch light still flickers, and Lexa's hands still shake, but it is a perfect kiss for a summer night._

_When Lexa finally hops back into the truck and Clarke gives a little wave from inside her doorway, it's only a few moments later that Lexa's phone buzzes._

_‘I like you.’ the text reads, ‘you kiss better than you dance.’_

"You don't want them, Nia"

"I don't?" Nia asks, cocking her head and sauntering over to her, "I think whatever hurts you, makes me feel much better"

Lexa knows this is true, knows that Nia will happily hurt Indra and Nyko, just to make Lexa suffer. It was time to try something different.

"She loved me," Lexa says.

Nia closes her eyes and leans her head back, sighing. She sways slightly and then her hand snaps back and cracks across Lexa's face, the movement faster than Lexa's eyes can track, the burning sensation across her face and the pops of light in her vision making her hiss.

Nia leans down, putting her face close to Lexa's hanging head and speaks into her ear.

"I just want you to know," Nia says, her hand coming up to Lexa's throat as she traces the skin with blood red nails, "that everything I'm going to do to you is for my sister. I want you to suffer, Lexa, and when I hurt you I want you to remember that you are owed much worse than this." Nia's nails dig into Lexa's skin as she tightens her grip around Lexa's throat.

"And when I'm done with you I will expect a confession," Nia continues, her words shaking with fury once more, "for killing Costia."


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke jolts awake to a sound like thunder. For a moment she can't find her bearings, can’t place the shape of the room she’s in or the sounds she’s hearing, far from her familiar Georgetown apartment and the predictable weather of DC. The pounding sound reverberates through the house again and Clarke comes back to herself, throwing off her sheets and stumbling out to the hallway, where the sound of sluicing water on the skylight is louder. The thundering continues, insistent as her pounding heartbeat, and the sound fills Clarke with the terror of knowing something is desperately wrong, but not what it is.

Clarke fumbles down the stairs in time to see Abby, robe held wrapped around her, a wary defensiveness in her posture, creaking open the door with the chain across it still in place.

“Where is Clarke?” a familiar voice demands, and Clarke can hear urgency in Indra's usually even tone. There is something else in her voice too, that Clarke can't identify.

“Who are you?” Abby says, and her face is hard. Clarke knows her mother is used to Clarke's fallout-- after Wells died and Clarke's downward spiral, Abby had a steely hand at dealing with whatever calamity Clarke had caused. It's not fear of her mother that keeps Clarke frozen to the banister halfway down the stairs-- it's the sense of impending disaster that grows with every second.

“Please,” and Clarke recognizes Nyko's shaking voice, “We need help. Look at her.”

There is a sound of shifting, and Abby’s eyes dart to a new focus, widening as they do.

“Please,” Nyko says again, “Clarke can help her.”

Abby moves quickly and efficiently, throwing open the door and reaching out to pull Nyko inside the foyer, careful not to jostle the burden he carries in his bear like arms.

In his wet and dripping arms is a pile of ripped clothing, wild hair, and blood, and for a moment Clarke's mind doesn't recognize the bundle as human.

“Lexa!” Clarke yelps, stumbling down the stairs in her haste. The look of Nyko with Lexa in his arms, silhouetted by the pouring rain looks too much like a tragedy, and Clarke rushes to wipe that picture away, before it becomes too solid, too real.

With Clarke’s rushing advance, Nyko bundles Lexa closer to himself, like he's afraid to let anyone touch her, but he softens at Clarke's wild and pleading look.

Clarke wants to touch her, but Lexa is a mess. Her nose looks broken and the lower part of her face is coated in dried blood, a worrying amount of it streaming from her temple. To Clarke's trained eye, the way Lexa is holding her arm looks wrong and the shirt that has ridden up by her ribs showcases blossoming bruises. Lexa looks smaller than she’s ever seemed-- crumpled up and thrown away like a crushed can in a corner.

“Lexa,” Clarke says, hoping that Lexa can hear her, “what happened?”

Lexa’s reply comes back barely audible, and Clarke has to strain to hear her.

“Hello, Clarke,” Lexa slurs, and her eyes don’t open. Her mouth is red with blood, her soft lips cracked open.

Clarke feels like she’s having an out of body experience, like there’s another self standing just behind her, screaming in her ear to do something, to fix this, to act, to save, but all this solid self can do is stand numb like an idiot. Clarke looks to her mother.

Abby’s eyes fix on her daughter for only a moment before her professional focus hones back in on Lexa, appraising the damage, devising her strategy.

“I'll drive us to the hospital.” Abby says, already tightening the tye of her robe.

“No,” Lexa croaks, beginning to struggle weakly in Nyko’s arms. Clarke puts a hand to her instinctively, to hold her in place, to keep her from hurting herself any further. Her skin is warm, and clammy with rain.

Indra’s eyes flick to Lexa and then to Abby.

“No,” Indra says.

“Why not?” Abby demands. 

Clarke runs her palm across Lexa’s hair, trying to still her. Lexa’s hair is matted with sweat and blood and it’s coarse against Clarke’s fingers.

Nyko bristles, “Because the doctor is a homophobic piece of--”

“Insurance,” Indra says, her tone cutting off more discussion, “she doesn't have it.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Abby snaps.

“Please,” Nyko says, and he’s trembling, strength diminished even as he’s carrying someone so much smaller in his arms, “Clarke can help, can't she? She knows medicine.”

“My daughter is an undergraduate. This girl needs a doctor.”

“Mom,” Clarke says, staring her mother in the eye, “Please.”

It’s been so long since Clarke has asked something of her mother-- asked rather than demanded, asked rather than lied and gone behind her back, asked rather than stubbornly forged ahead whether her mother cared or not-- that the honest appeal catches them both off guard for a moment. Thunder rumbles, that rolling crescendo that means a storm on the move.

Abby stares her down, and Clarke could swear that over the sound of rain she hears her mother’s teeth grind.

“Put her on the couch,” Abby says, waving Nyko in, “carefully.”

Nyko looks like he’s never been more careful in his life, practically tip-toeing as he carries Lexa to the living room, Clarke anxiously walking ahead of him, looking for things to kick out of his way, like the world’s most jittery minesweeper.

Abby disappears into her office as Nyko lays Lexa carefully on the couch. Lexa hisses sharply as her shoulder hits the cushion and Clarke rushes to readjust her. Nyko looks as though he’s about to cry, and Clarke moves him gently, but forcibly out of the way.

“Wet down a kitchen towel and bring it back for me,” she says, and Nyko takes a deep breath and heads towards the kitchen.

“Still with me, flower girl”? Clarke asks, her voice only catching a little, her fingers carefully stroking a small patch of clean skin on Lexa’s cheek.

“Yes,” Lexa mumbles, “Here.”

Indra crouches beside Clarke, tense and focused.

“She was hit in the head. While we were driving here I tried to keep her talking. She was mostly lucid, but it’s been hard to keep her awake.”

Clarke nods, “That’s alright. She can sleep. If she could carry on a conversation, even if she does have a concussion, it’s better to let her rest.”

Indra nods once, sharply, her hands clenched tightly across her knees.

“They kicked her in the ribs, stomped on her shoulder. I couldn’t tell if it was broken,” Indra’s eyes never leave Lexa’s face as she recounts her injuries.

“Who did this?” Clarke asks.

“People who don’t like Lexa.” Indra replies, stone faced and clench jawed.

Clarke brushes hair out of Lexa’s face, carefully pulling strands away from the dried blood on her forehead. She glances over at Indra, at the raw scrape across her cheek, the split lip.

“What about you? Are you alri--”

“I’m fine. Focus, Clarke,” Indra snaps.

Abby emerges from her office the same moment as Nyko returns from the kitchen with a wet towel. Clarke takes it and begins the tentative process of cleaning off Lexa’s face, careful not to to rub across what was certainly a broken nose. Underneath the blood, Lexa begins to reappear-- the sharp cheekbones, the lips, the skin-- features that Clarke is both familiar with and achingly, frustratingly alien to. The idea that she doesn’t know these traits, may never know them, fills Clarke with a kind of spinning panic that feels as inappropriate for the moment as it is unstoppable.

Abby clicks open her first aid kit and snaps on a pair of blue gloves, pulling out gauze, skin glue, and an ice pack, laying them on the coffee table in a regimented line.

“Take care of the eyebrow while I examine the ribs,” Abby instructs, handing her a packet of antiseptic and the glue.

Clarke nods, takes a deep breathe before examining the split in Lexa’s eyebrow, which is still slowly oozing. She snaps the icepack and puts it across Lexa’s brow, trying to stop the bleeding entirely before she seals it.

Abby raises Lexa’s shirt, and her sharp exhale at the sight of the heavily purpling skin is the only break in her efficient demeanor as she begins to gently feel across the ribs for any breaks. It would stall Clarke in her tracks too, if she didn’t will her eyes away from the damage, focus instead on the flickering movement of Lexa’s eyelashes, the pulse she can see beating in her neck, the rise of her chest as she breathes.

Clarke tries to ignore Indra’s steely presence beside her and Nyko’s nervous shifting from foot to foot as she checks to see if Lexa’s split eyebrow has stopped bleeding. It’s a relief when she finds that it has, as is her mother’s single satisfied nod as she finishes examining the ribs-- no breaks.

It’s a surprise when Clarke attempts the glue and finds her hands frozen. Clarke wills herself forward, chases after that clinical calm she's always been able to sink into, but it’s like her brain’s demands refuse to make it down her arm and into her fingers. Abby takes the glue from her-- not unkindly but with a professional lack of patience that makes Clarke’s face burn with shame. A quick movement across Lexa’s eyebrow is all Abby needs, and she passes the glue back to Clarke, already moving on to assess Lexa’s shoulder. Clarke caps the glue and puts it back in the first aid box with a sinking sense of uselessness.

“You,” Abby says, pointing to Nyko’s fidgeting form, “I’ll need your help with this.”

Nyko crouches down, his size awkwardly sandwiched between the couch and coffee table. 

“What do I do, what do you need?” Nyko says. He looks to Clarke and then back to Abby, wringing his hands and still dripping rainwater on the carpet.

“Push the table back, take her wrist, and start to lean back,” Abby instructs.

Nyko gets a look of horror on his face that lasts only a moment before Indra snarls at him, startling him into movement

“Do it,” Indra says, as she begins dragging the coffee table out of the way to make room. 

“Clarke, I’ll be at her shoulder to hold the angle. I’ll need you to keep her still,” Abby instructs, rolling up the sleeves of her robe.

Clarke has set a dislocated shoulder before-- it’s not hard, as long as nothing else is broken, but it’s precise, and it’s painful.

“Can it wait?” Clarke asks quietly, afraid of Indra hearing her indecision.

Abby looks at her and there’s more surgeon than mother in her face.

“Hold her still and it will go faster,” Abby says.

Clarke looks to Lexa, trying to puzzle out the best way to comfortably hold her in place on the couch, finally shaking off her nerves and climbing onto the couch on top of her, straddling her waist and holding her uninjured shoulder down.

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, her eyes beginning to flicker open.

“I’m here. You’re okay,” Clarke says, focusing on Lexa’s face, steeling herself as she sees her mother nod to Nyko out of the corner of her eye.

Abby takes Lexa’s shoulder in her hands, and Lexa hisses at the touch, beginning to twist away from the discomfort of having her arm handled. Clarke steadies her hand against Lexa’s other shoulder, presses her forearm a little more firmly across her collarbone. Slowly, Abby begins pulling Lexa’s arm away from her body.

“That hurts,” Lexa whines, and it’s such a vulnerable, un-Lexa-like sound that Clarke bites her lip to keep from yelling at her mother to stop.

Clarke glances to the side to see how far along they are, and quickly looks away-- Nyko is openly crying and Indra is crouched next to him, her hands over her ears to block out Lexa’s pleas.

“Let me go, Clarke,” Lexa begs and her eyes are finally open, but hazy with pain and disorientation, red from burst blood vessels and unfocused. Lexa reaches with her free hand to pull at Clarke’s fingers, trying to push her off, and Clarke wraps her own fingers between Lexa’s bruised ones. Clarke can tell Lexa is only half there-- struggling beneath a layer of concussion to make sense of where she is and why it hurts.

Lexa begins to pull away from Abby, clenching her hand and twisting underneath Clarke.

“She needs to relax,” Abby says, with the same cool, detached tone as earlier, “The muscles need to be loose to slide the bone back in.”

“Lexa, listen to me,” Clarke says, trying to catch Lexa’s eyes with her own, “I know it hurts, but you have to be still, you have to be strong for me, okay?”

Lexa’s grits her teeth and looks away from her, her eyes wild, anger starting to color her face, making her snarl. 

“Get them off me!”

“Talk to her,” Abby demands.

Clarke grabs Lexa’s chin in her hands, pulling Lexa’s face back to focus on her own. Clarke leans forward, refusing to let Lexa look away. Clarke’s hair falls forward, obscuring Lexa’s view of Nyko gently taking her wrist. Clarke doesn’t know what to say, she doesn’t know how to calm Lexa down, to stop her from hurting herself-- there’s a thousand words in her brain and none of them can find their way to her tongue.

“Clarke--” Lexa begins.

“My dad’s dead,” Clarke says, looking straight into Lexa’s eyes. Lexa’s brow furrows, like she doesn’t follow the words at first. Then Lexa goes soft beneath her, the fight leaving her eyes and her body, her attention wholly on Clarke. For a single heavy moment Clarke can feel everyone else’s eyes on her too, before Abby whispers for Nyko to begin.

“He died three months ago. He had a brain tumor and he died.” 

Clarke can feel rather than see Nyko begin to pull on Lexa’s wrist, leaning back into the movement. Lexa flinches, but keeps her eyes steady on Clarke, and Clarke can see her working hard to stay above the effects of her concussion, to breach the surface of the confusion, to stay present for this story.

“We were out on the boat,” Clarke says, remembering the moment, the way the water looked like glass at a distance, a thousand tiny waves up close, like an impressionist painting, the sun mirroring on the blue of the water and the brown of her father’s leather jacket. 

“We were fishing and then he had a seizure. He started shaking and he dropped his pole in the water. He almost fell in too.” 

Clarke remembers pulling on his jacket, hauling with all her strength to keep him in the boat. She remembers the sway of the boat beneath her, the terror that she’d lose her balance and they’d both fall in, her father convulsing and paralyzed, slipping down into the dark. Nyko readjusts his grip on Lexa’s wrist and continues to lean back slowly, pulling the bone every so slowly back into place.

“I had to call 911 and tell them my dad was having a seizure. That I was in the middle of the lake.I had to steer us back to shore where the ambulance was waiting.” 

She remembers the roar of the boat engine in her ears, willing it to move faster as the flashing lights of the ambulance at the dock seemed to refuse to draw any closer, her other hand on her father’s chest, willing it to keep rising. Lexa’s eyes are locked on hers, her hand squeezing Clarke’s tightly.

“I had to ride with him in the back, and when we got to the hospital I had to be there while they did a thousand tests. I had to sit next to his bed and be there when they told him.”

Clarke remembers how frightened her father looked when they told him, how helpless he had seemed, and how that had scared Clarke more than anything in her life ever had. The rise and fall of Lexa’s chest beneath her is measured and constant, catching only when Nyko begins to pull again.

“I was with him every day in the hospital for weeks, and I held his hand the whole time,” Clarke tightens her fingers around Lexa’s, “Just like I’m holding yours.” 

Lexa nods, her face damp with sweat, her eyes determined.

“You have to be strong for me, Lexa, so I can be strong for you.”

Nyko pulls back another two inches and Abby nods, feeling Lexa’s shoulder, “That’s enough. It’s in place now.”

The tension seems to leave everyone in the room with a sigh, except for Clarke, whose muscles still feel tight with adrenaline and nerves. Lexa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, opening and closing the palm of her injured arm.

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks.

“I will be fine, Clarke,” Lexa replies, her voice quiet and tired.

“Okay,” Clarke says, feeling very out of place on top of Lexa now, “Well, I’ll get off you then.”

Clarke slides off the couch, careful not to jostle Lexa’s injured arm, and places the ice pack on Lexa’s shoulder. Nyko and Indra stand next to each other, awkwardly sharing glances, Nyko swinging his arms nervously.

“You two can sit with her,” Abby says, busying herself by tidying up and putting everything back in the first aid kit, “I’ll get everyone a glass of water.”

Abby snaps the first aid kit closed with finality, sweeping towards the kitchen in her paisley blue robe.

“Clarke, come to the kitchen, please.”

“Just a second,” Clarke says, chewing her lip and watching Lexa, who seems to have fallen asleep, or into something very much like it.

“Now, Clarke,” Abby’s voice is sharp and Clarke’s feet start moving towards the kitchen before she’s even conscious of it.

Abby pulls down four glasses from the cabinet, fills each with ice from the fridge, and then to the brim with water, setting all four chilly glasses on the marble countertop in a row. The sound of each glass being placed ratchets up Clarke’s nerves as Abby works in silence.

After her strangely hypnotic chore is done, her mother places her palms on the counter, takes a deep breath, and with a voice shaking with anger says, “How dare you tell that story to strangers. This is my house, Clarke. How dare you do that in front of me.”

“Mom,” Clarke stutters, so lost at this avenue of attack that she can’t find any other words to string together. She had expected demands about who these people were and why they’d showed up bleeding on her doorstep, why they’d insisted Clarke treat them. Clarke had expected anger and disappointment, lecturing and exasperation, but not about this.

“Whatever you may think about how I handled your father being sick, how I handled his death,” Abby continues, “I was there too.”

Clarke feels the blood begin to rush to her cheeks, “No you weren’t.”

“Clarke--”

Clarke starts to hear her voice rise in volume, but it seems like it’s coming from a very long way away, like she’s shouting from a very high altitude and the air is sucking the words out of her mouth, “You weren’t there that morning! And you weren’t there when he was sick, not really. You were working, or you were arguing with his doctors, or you were accepting cards and flowers and visitors for him, but you weren’t really there! And just because you feel guilty about it now doesn’t mean I have to rewrite history with you in it!”

Clarke falls into silence, her chest heaving and tears streaming down her cheeks, and the only sound in the kitchen is her choked breathing and the settling of the ice in the glasses. The rain has stopped, the thunder only an echo in Clarke’s mind.

“Your friend can spend the night on the couch,” Abby says. Her eyes are wet, but icy, her tone even more so, “Tell the rest of them to get out.”

Her mother sweeps out of the kitchen, and Clarke stands frozen in place, listening to the sounds of her mother ascending the stairs, the faint squeal of her bedroom door opening, the click of finality as it closes.

She stands there for several minutes, trying to get herself under control, when she hears Indra clearing her throat from the door of the kitchen.

Clarke scrubs at her face, coughs, and refuses to turn around.

“Nyko and I are going,” Indra says.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Indra says, and it sounds like she’s struggling to find her words, like they grate to say, “We didn’t want to cause you problems.”

“It’s okay, Indra,” Clarke’s head is beginning to pound, “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s fine.”

“Thank you, Clarke. We owe you.”

“Goodbye, Indra.”

Clarke feels Indra leave the kitchen, hears her and Nyko’s soft conversation and their exit out the front door. Indra’s truck rumbles to life and then the sound of it’s tired engine disappears.

Clarke takes a glass of water, the sides now slick with condensation, and pads out into the darkened living room.

Lexa is still laying on the couch, her injured arm held bent across her chest, but at a much more natural angle than before. Lexa’s eyes are closed and she sounds as though she’s softly snoring.

Clarke puts the water on the coffee table and pulls an afghan from the reclining chair, spreading it across Lexa, pulling it carefully under the sleeping girl’s chin. Clarke hesitates a moment over Lexa’s boots, wondering if it’s worth it to disturb her by taking them off.

“Clarke,” Lexa mumbles.

Clarke crouches down next to her, lets her eyes follow the bruising starting to appear around her eyes, the skin scraped off her cheekbones, the split in her lip now dark and scabbed.

“What happened, Lexa?” Clarke asks quietly.

Lexa sighs, pulls an arm out from under the afghan to stroke Clarke’s cheek, dirt-grimed fingers smudging half-dried tear tracks. Clarke feels exhausted, like all the adrenaline and fear and frustration coursing through her nerves has left them stripped and frayed, like the weight of Wells and her father has finally torn a hole through the bottom of her heart only to become heavier and darker in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m okay,” Lexa says, finally.

Clarke leans her head against Lexa’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of blood and Lexa’s skin.

“I’m not,” Clarke says.


	9. Chapter 9

When Lexa wakes, everything is pain. For several eternal seconds she is awash in it-- each new wave crashing over her, rocking loose any grip she has on herself or her surroundings. It takes time and a straining effort before she can drag herself back to the shore of self-awareness, cataloguing the pain and naming it to gain some control over it. Lexa starts small-- the bruises and cuts on her knuckles, her skin pavement burned. Her nose hurts, the pain of the break radiating up around her eye sockets, even the flutter of her eyelids grating. The dull, aching pulse around her shoulder. The waves of nausea as her head throb the sense of spinning wild in the darkness. The breath-catching pain around her ribs that comes with every inhale.

She doesn’t know how long it takes to make peace with each part of her body, to acknowledge the damage and push past it. Once the physical pain is under control, once Lexa regains the ability to recognize her own thoughts, to hear them over the cacophony of hurt, there is another injury to acknowledge.

_“Say it! Say that you killed her!”_

It was like the beating she’d taken had cracked her open, spidering a thin but deep fissure in the many layers she’d put between herself and those memories, a canyon that exposed the various strata of reasoning she’d used to assuage her guilt.

_Nia’s boot finds her ribs again, despite Lexa curling in on herself. She hears Indra and Nyko yelling, their words strangely far away, the only sound she can focus on is Nia’s vicious demands._

_“I won’t stop until you say it!”_

Costia had made her own choices. Lexa couldn’t have known what would happen. It couldn’t be Lexa’s fault because if it was how could she stand to go through another day. 

_“You killed my little sister and you’re going to pay for it!”_

_Nia’s next kick finds Lexa’s temple and she can feel the impact like lightning coursing through her skull, a shatterglass of pain._

_All those reasons, all those lies, just so much dirt unearthed to get to the core of it-- that Costia was dead because of Lexa._

_“It was my fault!” Lexa finally yells, because it’s true, because it was time to admit the betrayal, because what is there left to prove, lying on the asphalt, bleeding?_

For a moment that knowledge transfixes her, a single point of pain in her body that everything swirls to coalesce around. It is more terrifying than the physical pain, worse even than the moments that she lay curled on the pavement, waiting for the next kick to come. Lexa’s control falls away, and she can’t hear her thoughts over the blood rushing in her ears, the breathe caught in her throat coming out in a hoarse whine.

_Lexa waits for the next blow, almost welcoming it, but it never comes. She looks up from the arms she’d thrown around her head to create a protective cage around herself to see Nia, standing tall and panting, red hair stringy with exertion._

_Nia spits, and Lexa can feel the hot foam of it on her skin._

_“I should kill you for her,” Nia says._

“Lexa? Are you okay?” she hears a bleary voice ask, a hand suddenly at her arm, a warm touch on her skin.

Clarke’s presence, the concern in her voice, somehow makes it all harder, and Lexa makes a strangled noise that doesn’t sound human even to her own ears, like the despair of an animal in a trap.

“Lexa! I’m here, what do you need? What can I do?”

Clarke’s hands are at Lexa’s face now, running a thumb across her cheekbones and smoothing back tangled hair, and Lexa can feel the fear in Clarke’s touch, the worry for her. The weight of her care makes Lexa want to recoil, unworthy of it.

Lexa pulls her uninjured arm up, tugging Clarke’s hand away from her face, trying to break the contact, only to feel Clarke’s lips on her bruised knuckles, a kiss at each scrape on her palm, one pressed firmly at the pulse in her wrist.

“It’s okay,” Clarke whispers into her skin, “You’re safe here.”

At Clarke’s assurance the storm hits, and the caged whine in Lexa’s chest becomes a sob, the burn in her eyes now tears, the tension in her body turned to a shaking she can’t stop.

“I've got you. I'm here,” Clarke says, pulling herself up onto the couch next to Lexa, the pain that comes from being jostled worth the feeling of Clarke's body against her, the sharp throb in her ribs a fair trade for Clarke's arm across her, holding her tight. Lexa sobs and Clarke breathes into her ear, whispering her repeated phrase, a steady mantra; _I'm here, you're safe, I've got you._

The words blur together into a soothing rhythm and Lexa doesn't know how long she shakes and cries, how many minutes or hours they lay together, close as bodies allow. It's only later she seems to return to herself to realize that the sobs have become a steady stream of silent tears, the shaking turned into an intermittent shiver.

Clarke still murmurs in her ear, and the mantra has turned into a string of babbling endearments; _sweetheart, flower girl, dear one._

For a moment Lexa feels embarrassed, sure this stream of consciousness is meant for a brain that isn't registering it, that Clarke means it only as a generic comfort, and Lexa's quiet tears turn to soft gasps as, against all evidence, the fear that Clarke could not truly care for her overwhelms her.

“Shhh,” Clarke says, and kisses her ear, “I'm here, Lexa.”

“I am sorry, Clarke,” Lexa finally manages. Her voice is reedy and hoarse and she can taste the blood in her mouth still, “You don’t need to do this.”

“Enough, Lexa,” Clarke says, “Just let me hold you.”

Lexa lets her, quieting her thoughts, trying to give herself permission to take comfort in Clarke’s touch, in her words, even if the rational part of Lexa’s mind knows she has not earned it. The pit that has opened up in her heart, the one that leads to Costia, remains open, but Lexa feels as though she’s backed up from the edge somewhat, no longer in danger of tumbling down into the depths of it, never to climb out again.

“Do you need anything?” Clarke finally asks, once Lexa’s breathing has evened out.

The question doesn’t register as quite literal for a moment, and Lexa spends a solid minute thinking about exactly what her soul might be lacking before her mind makes the connection that Clarke is asking about less metaphysical needs.

“I am very thirsty,” Lexa croaks, her voice cracking from the recent tears.

Clarke nods, “I'll be right back.”

Clarke’s shuffle off the couch hurts Lexa’s ribs, and leaves her feeling bereft, but Lexa pushes away those feelings as unearned. Clarke stands and stretches, and then lets her fingers linger on Lexa's arm before she leaves, padding off to the kitchen in the dimness of the late night, early morning blur.

Lexa takes a moment to study her surroundings, trying to stave off the emotional and physical waves that still push against her like slowly diminishing ripples.

She's in Clarke's living room, though Lexa has only a vague impression of how she got there. Pale blue walls, an immaculately steamed carpet, and precisely placed white furniture with perfectly folded knit afghans. Lexa realizes with a sinking sensation that her bloody and ragged body is nestled on one such pristine white couch. Lexa knows this is a summer home, but there is still a white brick fireplace dominating an entire wall. The room gives the feeling of being a show house-- staged somehow-- prepared for drama but not actually to be lived in.

When Clarke returns she brings a tall glass of water and a banana. She kicks at something on the floor, and Lexa cranes her neck to look down-- there’s a pillow and a nest of blankets between the couch and the coffee table.

Clarke helps Lexa sit forward to take a long drink, and then settles back onto the floor, cross-legged in her mess of bedsheets. Clarke has dark circles under her eyes and all the things Clarke has done for her in the past few hours make Lexa’s cheeks burn with shame.

“I'm sorry,” Lexa says as Clarke begins to peel the banana. Clarke gives her a warning look and Lexa thinks she had better specify, “I fell asleep after what you told me about your father. That was...rude of me.”

Clarke’s cheeks color as she abandons the banana to put her head in her hands, tussled yellow hair falling over her fingers. Her voice comes out muffled, “Don't be. I should be apologizing to you. I can't believe I did that. What a dick move.”

Lexa furrows her brow, then regrets it-- whatever was holding her split eyebrow together hurt at the pull.

“Why was it a dick move?”

Clarke turns her attention back to the banana, ripping off the last of the peel as she speaks, “It was a dick move because I was distracting you from your pain by making you focus on mine.” Clarke begins to rip the soft flesh into chunks, the intensity of her focus mashing the fruit more than anything, “It was a dick move because we don't even know eachother that well, and I shouldn't have put that on you.” Clarke digs at a brown spot near the end, her hands now mostly coated in banana paste, “It was a dick move because your friends were there and my mom was there.”

“Clarke,” Lexa manages to interject, and Clarke momentarily pauses in her mangling of the banana.

“Yeah?”

“Please stop saying dick move.”

“Sorry,” Clarke grimaces, “Want some banana?”

Lexa surveys the mostly pulped fruit on the coffee table, “Not particularly.”

“Too bad. You should eat some anyway. It’s a super food.”

“Alright,” Lexa says, and she can feel herself smiling.

Clarke seems to sense that actually feeding Lexa the banana would embarrass her into oblivion, so she places the least mashed portion in Lexa’s uninjured hand and simply stares at her accusingly until Lexa finally puts it in her mouth. Lexa chews slowly, and decides the banana was probably a good idea; her last meal hours and a beating ago.

There’s a moment of awkwardness; their bodies having been so close together before it’s like they’re unsure what to do with them now they’re apart.

“Do you want to watch TV, or something?” Clarke asks, fidgeting.

Lexa nods. She doesn't really, but everything hurts too much to fall asleep, and it is as good an excuse as any to stay up with Clarke.

Clarke grabs a remote from the top of a stack of magazines artfully arranged in a spiral, and Lexa has to stop herself from rolling her eyes as a panel above the mantelpiece slides back to reveal a massive flatscreen. 

Clarke channel surfs for awhile, and Lexa catches Clarke giving her surreptitious glances every now and again, as if Clarke is trying to gauge her interest level on the sly.

“Whatever you want to watch is fine, Clarke. I’m not picky,” Lexa finally tells her after she catches her staring again.

“Fine,” Clarke says, “X-Games it is.”

They tune in just in time to watch a particularly brutal wipe out involving a ramp, a bike, and a rider all heading in different directions. Clarke 'oofs’ at the fall and even Lexa catches herself making a sympathetic grunt at the bad landing. The fall is replayed several times, slowed down and zoomed in on until the repetition makes the destruction look almost intentional, like a strange choreography.

They watch in silence, the volume turned low so that the commentating is just the silhouette of language-- recognizable as words but without substance. Clarke huddles in her makeshift bed, Lexa lays stiffly on the couch, inches and miles away from each other. Lexa doesn’t understand how they can have these moments of connection, these times where they seem to know each other longer than the few weeks they’ve actually spent together, and then suddenly spiral away into this desolate separateness; how grief and a history that should have long since healed keeps peeling them apart, like they are caught in different currents and the effort of working against them is exhausting.

Lexa watches Clarke in the flickering blue glow of the television, watches as light begins to come through the windows, bringing the room to a palette of blues and grays; colors that are weak, but gentle, and kind to Clarke’s pale skin, to the downturn of her mouth, to the line of her neck and chest as she sighs.

Lexa keeps watching, measuring time in the way that the colors in the room brighten, how the pale light changes intensity, making everything more solid. The brightening catches the gold in Clarke’s hair, casting every detail of her in sun, from the soft movement of her eyelashes to the outline of her artist’s fingers as she plays with a loose thread on her shirt.

It’s as an afterthought that Lexa realizes that the pain in her body has receded during her observation, like her focus on Clarke numbs the hurt.

At some point the channel has changed to a weather report, and Lexa dimly registers that today is supposed to be sunny, all trace of the calamitous thunderstorm from last night passed over them, moved on to some other small mid-western town while they are left in its becalmed wake, ready to repair the downed powerlines and pull the fallen branches out of the streets.

“I’m grateful you told me about your father, Clarke,” Lexa says, and she sees Clarke startle at the sudden sound of her voice. “You had nothing to apologize to me for.”

Clarke swallows and looks down, her brow furrowed, every change easy to catch in the sunlight she eclipses.

“I could say the same to you,” Clarke says, looking up at Lexa, blue eyes beginning to lighten with the day, “for whatever it was you were trying to apologize for.” Clarke reaches out tentatively, strokes one of Lexa’s bruised knuckles, “You don’t deserve this.”

“It was my fault,” Lexa says. She’d meant for her words to sound detached and rational, but, almost certainly due to exhaustion, she can taste how bitter they sound coming out.

Clarke’s face darkens, a look between anger and disgust, and she looks away as she shakes her head, “Jesus, Lexa. No, it’s not.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke, I meant--”

Clarke’s eyes flash darkly as she turns them back to Lexa, “Just don’t talk like that. I don’t know if it’s you being stoic or you’re trying to brush it off so you don’t worry me, but just don’t.”

Clarke holds her gaze until Lexa nods slowly, and Clarke’s stiffly held shoulders fall.

“I don’t know what happened, but when Nyko carried you in like that I was fucking terrified.”

Lexa opens her mouth to apologize again, but changes her mind, “I’m glad they brought me here. I’m glad you were here, Clarke.”

Clarke softens, “Me too.”

“I should tell you what happened,” Lexa says, and her chest hurts with the weight of knowing what would have to be dredged up to tell this story, “I owe you that.”

“You do,” Clarke agrees, “but not on an empty stomach. Can I make you breakfast?”

Lexa smiles, and the weight feels lessened, not like it’s any less heavy, but like it’s better supported, like it’s not something she carries alone.

“I would like that,” she says.

“What can I make you?” Clarke says, returning the smile.

“I will eat anything but bananas, Clarke.”


	10. Chapter 10

Clarke makes it all the way to the kitchen, throws open the pantry door and pulls the chain light before she remembers she can’t cook. Something about taking care of Lexa, the domesticity of it all, had fooled her into thinking she somehow newly possessed this skill by virtue of genre construction.

Clarke walks into the pantry and closes the door behind her, alone with the boxes of mashed potato flakes, canned corn, and the still swinging light chain. She fights the urge to sit on the floor, curl up, and turn off her brain. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep or the early hour or the strangeness of the circumstance, but it felt like at some point in the night she and Lexa had slipped into a sideways space where nothing existed apart from them and the house. It wasn’t an unwelcome sensation, not entirely, but the intimacy of it frightens Clarke-- like this morning was one for telling secrets, whether you wanted to or not. Like staying up together as the sun rose was some kind of pact magic that existed in humans since there had been a sun to rise and Lexa’s place in her heart was going to be cemented there indelibly. As if it hadn’t been the summer of Lexa already for Clarke.

There was simply too much to lose, and Clarke doesn’t feel strong enough to brave another loss.

Clarke comes to herself, realizing that she’s been locking eyes with the Quaker Oats man the entire time. She grabs the oatmeal off the shelf, takes a deep breath, and opens the pantry door, emerging out into the kitchen where golden sunlight bisects the room-- half in brilliant warmth, the other in cool shadow.

It takes a moment for her to find where the pots are stored, the kitchen is so rarely used. After a scuffle with an overstacked cabinet and a moment to peel off the price tag, Clarke stands in the middle of the kitchen, pot held in one hand as she studies the directions on the oatmeal with a frown, deciding to eyeball the measurements rather than try to find wherever the measuring spoons and cups had ended up.

The next few minutes are taken up with the minutia of boiling water, of finding sugar and pouring milk, of rinsing blueberries and shaking up orange juice jugs. Birds sing outside the window. The normalcy of it is comforting to Clarke, and she tries to focus on nothing but the task at hand, doing her best to shake off the meditative moments where Lexa’s face comes to her mind and she finds herself staring into the middle distance.

Even with her attempted full attention, the oatmeal clumps and singes at the bottom, and Clarke does her best to hide the inconsistencies with copious amounts of sugar and berries. She clears a bowl of fake lemons off a decorative tray and replaces it with two steaming bowls of oatmeal, two spoons, two glasses of orange juice, and two green cloth napkins that Clarke folds and refolds, fussing with the placement of them so much that Clarke actually begins to lose respect for herself.  
Clarke takes a deep breath, pushes her hair out of her face, and picks up the tray, padding softly back into the living room, walking carefully to avoid spilling any juice. She looks up to see Lexa, still on the couch, the sunlight accentuating every cut and bruise. Clarke could paint every shade of purple and blue she sees there, every rusting red that spiders across her skin, but she wishes she couldn’t, wishes the only sketches she could draw of Lexa were ones where she was whole. Clarke sighs, and it’s a sigh of mingled sadness and affection.

Lexa attempts to sit up as Clarke comes forward to set the tray on the coffee table. Clarke frowns at Lexa’s grimace of pain at the movement.

“Lie back down, Lexa,” Clarke commands.

Lexa shakes her head, “I’ll have to sit up eventually, Clarke.”

Clarke sighs again as Lexa continues to struggle, finally settling on placing the pillow from her floor-bed behind Lexa with a disapproving look.

“Thank you, Clarke,” Lexa says, and her eyes are only a little glassy from pain, “There is room now, if you would like to sit?”

Clarke nods, taking a seat by Lexa’s socked feet. Lexa’s socks are gray, with red toes and heels, and Clarke is too fond of her. She hands Lexa a bowl of oatmeal, and slides her orange juice closer to her on the table.

“Thank you for breakfast, Clarke,” Lexa says, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “I don’t know how to thank you. For everything you’ve done.”

Clarke shakes her head, remembering how she’d frozen the night before, how she’d been so frightened of losing Lexa she’d been unable to help the way she wanted to.

“I wish I could have done more,” is what she ends up saying.

Lexa smiles, split-lipped and soft, “I already owe you a great deal, Clarke. I don’t know that I could afford more.”

They eat in silence for a time, Lexa taking measured bites and methodically chewing, Clarke doing her best not to wolf her food down immediately. As the food runs out, the words build up, and Clarke begins to dig her toes into the carpet.  
“So,” Clarke says, elongating the ‘o’ as she pushes the last clump of oatmeal around the bottom of her bowl.

“So,” Lexa replies, placing her own bowl on the table and folding her hands like she’s in a boardroom, sets her shoulders like a general.

“I was in a fight last night,” she says.

“Yes,” Clarke nods, eyes running over Lexa’s various injuries,“I put that much together.”

“Nia and her group are--” Lexa seems to grasp for the right words, “They--she--objects to my sexuality.”

“So she’s an asshole.”

“Yes. Also I dated her sister.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, eyebrows raising as she looks away from Lexa and down at her empty bowl, “Are you and her sister still close?”

Lexa takes a long time to reply, “No. We’re no longer close.”

Clarke glances back at Lexa, who is staring out at nothing, mess of hair and tousled braids obscuring her expression.

“There’s more you’re not telling me.”

“Yes,” Lexa says, but offers nothing else.

“Okay,” Clarke says, “I guess that has to be good enough.”

Lexa nods once.

“For now,” Clarke amends.

Lexa’s shoulders fall, but she nods again.

Clarke collects their bowls, stacks them on the tray and takes them back out to the kitchen. The sun has fully entered the room now and with the unforgiving light Clarke realizes how tired she is. She’d like nothing more than to turn back the sun, pad back into the living room, and collapse onto the couch with Lexa.

When she does come back to the living room, Lexa is sitting up on the couch, a look of horror on her face.

“Lexa?” Clarke asks, moving to her quickly and kneeling next to her, “What’s wrong?”

“Clarke,” Lexa says, and her eyes are downcast, “I have something to confess.”

Clarke frowns, puts her hand on Lexa’s knee.

“I think I got blood on your white couch,” Lexa says, pulling her tangled blanket to the side to reveal the smudges of dried brown blood from the many cuts and scrapes they'd been heedless of the night before in their haste to set Lexa's arm.

“Oh, shit,” Clarke says, thinking of Abby and the interior decorator she’d hired to do this room.

“Yes. Shit,” Lexa grimaces.

“Well,” Clarke says, chewing at her lip, “I guess we have to flee the scene.”

\----

It takes time for Clarke to search through Abby’s bag to find her keys, and longer to painstakingly get Lexa to the garage, her arm thrown around Clarke’s neck as they move as slow as possible, partly for silence and partly for Lexa’s bruised ribs.  
The car is new, and starts with a barely audible purr, but opening the garage door sounds like a landslide. Clarke reverses slowly, switching off the automatic headlights so not even a stray beam can make its way across Abby’s upstairs window and alert her to their escape.

Once she turns onto the twisting lake road it’s smooth sailing-- the road is deserted this early in the morning and well paved this close to the water and the complaints of the rich who abhor potholes. The silence Clarke had wrapped them in to secure their escape becomes nerve-wracking-- the only sounds the smooth whir of wheel over still wet road and the gentle huff of the air conditioning. Clarke turns on the CD player with a quick jab, and her mother’s Coldplay CD starts to play. It’s corny, Clarke thinks, glancing over at Lexa to gauge her reaction, but not too embarrassing.

Lexa has her elbow up on the window, chin in her hand as she looks out, a surprisingly relaxed gesture that feels at odds with the bruises and cuts that are still fresh on her face. Lexa looks so at ease that Clarke decides not to disturb her for directions, and instead points her internal compass towards the center of town, driving only a little over the speed limit to savor the morning.

As they leave the tree dappled lake roads and begin to pass the far less grand homes of town locals Lexa slowly loses her ease. By the time they’ve reached the roundabout at the center of town, war monument to victory winged high, Lexa’s hands are laced tight in her lap, the set of her shoulders a visible few inches higher. Clarke stops at the entrance to the deserted roundabout and looks to Lexa, at a loss for their route finally.  
Lexa nods forward, “Straight on, Clarke.”

Clarke finds herself driving slower and slower, weaving carefully to avoid the several stretches of rough road, inching to a near crawl as they cross the train tracks that bisect the town. Clarke has never seen a train on these tracks.

Here is the part of town where the business’s change every summer Clarke is here, where no one can seem to sustain a dream or a storefront. They pass by the giant empty parking lot of a failed grocery store, a place where seagulls inexplicably congregate, and by a strip of fast food restaurants-- the only places that have had a face lift in the past several years, and only to keep up with the marketing campaigns that must be kept uniform through every state.

Clarke glances over at Lexa, and there is something wistful in her look, like she’s also taking in the enormity of a town that only ever seems to grow more faded and cracked every year.

“Turn here, Clarke,” Lexa instructs, and Clarke does, turning down a tree lined street with a number of old and once beautiful houses that are showing their age. At the corner is a church, white paint peeling, message board advertising a surprising number of services throughout the week, and an unelaborated on verse: Proverbs 6:16-19.

“Just down this street. On the right,” Lexa supplies.

Clarke drives forward and turns into a parking lot so cracked to pieces that dandelions are growing between the asphalt. Several cars are also parked, none of them new, and all of them with some unique car ailment-- a duct taped on exhaust pipe, missing hubcaps, a door of a completely different color. The apartment complex they sit in front of seems similarly dilapidated-- a grungy beige that was popular two decades ago, a roof that’s missing shingling, and rusted out balcony fencing. Clarke parks and turns off the engine, turning to Lexa.

Lexa doesn’t look at her, and there is color to her normally pale cheeks. Clarke is suddenly aware that what she had mistook for anxiety in Lexa may well have been something else.  
“Lexa?”

Lexa picks at a blood stain at the hem of her shirt, eyes trained downward, “I may need your help getting up the stairs Clarke, but I will be fine from there. Thank you for the ride. It was kind of you.”

Clarke frowns, and shakes her head, taking one of Lexa’s too busy hands in her own.

“Quit it,” she says, and Lexa looks up to meet her eyes, “You’re being real fucking weird right now.”

Lexa smiles, which surprises both of them, and nods.

“Okay,” Clarke says, squeezing Lexa’s hand one last time before opening the car door. She goes over to Lexa’s side and helps her out, looping an arm around Lexa’s waist to support her. They hobble to the stairs and make their way up, Clarke insisting on several breathers when she sees that Lexa is gritting her teeth. When they finally make it up to the second floor, Lexa leads them to the third door down. The numbering announces that it is the 2nd apartment, but the faded imprint and screw holes of a lost number hint that it is in fact the 12th. There is an outdoor lamp that Lexa carefully unscrews the glass from, fishing out a hide-a-key and spending a moment struggling with a sticky lock, before finally pushing the door open.

It’s dim inside, the blinds all pulled closed, and it takes Clarke’s eyes a moment to adjust. The inside of the apartment is like stepping into a sepia photograph-- everything seems to have that faded out brown look to it. There is wafer thin brown carpet, a brown and tan patterned couch, and more wood panelling than Clarke had thought still existed, including an ancient wood panelled TV. Clarke can hear the refrigerator humming.

“Is there anyone else here to help you?” Clarke asks.

Lexa unwinds herself from Clarke’s hold on her, limping towards the couch. She sits on the arm of it and begins to laboriously unlace her shoes. Clarke starts forward to offer to do it for her, but stops herself.

“My sister will not be back from her haul until tomorrow evening, but I will be fine until then, Clarke.”

“Can I get you anything? Some water?”

For a moment Lexa looks as though she might refuse her, and then she winces, “Water would be welcome.”

Clarke opens several bare cupboards before she finds where the glasses are kept, grabs an orange plastic one and fills it at the sink. By the time she returns with it Lexa has managed to get one boot off and seems to be taking a break to steel herself before the next one.

“Here you go,” Clarke says, passing the glass over.

“Thank you, Clarke,” Lexa says, and the words make her sound tired. “And thank you for bringing me up. I really will be alright now.”

“I know,” Clarke says, staring at her, “Can I stay anyway?”

The side of Lexa’s mouth quirks up in a sad smile, and in this dim house she looks broken down and at home.

“Of course,” Lexa says.

Clarke matches her half smile. She feels adrift in this house, not sure what to touch or where to sit, but she knows she doesn’t want to leave.

“I think I should get out of these clothes,” Lexa says, pulling at a tear in her dark jeans, which brings to attention her dirt and blood rimmed fingers, “and perhaps take a shower.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, feeling her face color, “can I-- should I help with that?”

“I will manage, Clarke,” Lexa says, smiling at Clarke’s stutter.

Lexa begins an uneven, one-booted walk down a dim hallway, opening a door on the left, and turning back to Clarke for a moment before she disappears inside, “Make yourself at home, Clarke.”

Clarke nods and gives a stilted wave at Lexa’s disappearing form, biting her lip at the bizarrity of her own behaviour. Left alone in the house, Clarke isn’t quite sure what to do with herself, deciding to take a slow loop through the living room, fingers running along the wood panelling, catching at the seams. Behind the couch is a shelf with a few photos and tchotchkes that arrests her attention. 

One photo is of a shockingly young Lexa, face dour even in childhood and pink barrettes, seated next to a teenager who shares the same sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, and scowl. Clarke guesses this must be Anya in her youth-- the half-sister she’s heard only a little about and who seems to be away more often than not. Another photo is of a woman, perhaps a little older than Clarke is now, wearing elaborate braids and a fond smile as she looks down at a baby in her arms. There is not much beyond the similarity of her braids to Lexa’s that would suggest her identity, but Clarke makes an assumption anyway. There is an American flag folded into a triangle that Clarke tentatively traces the edge of a star on, wondering who Lexa had cared for that fell. The rest of the knick knacks Clarke can’t parse the meaning of-- a small silver bell, a drawing of a startled looking rabbit, a snow globe of Chicago with no water inside, all coated in a layer of dust.

Clarke is momentarily startled by the groaning sound of pipes and the sound of spraying water, an indication that Lexa had at least managed to get the shower going. There is nothing else on the walls of the living room to hold her attention, so Clarke’s gaze drifts downwards to a crate shoved underneath the coffee table. Refusing to listen to the part of her that suggests she might officially be snooping, Clarke gingerly pulls the box free and finds that it’s full of a old records, the sleeves showing the signs of being well-loved rather than meticulously collected. She flips through them-- _Singin’ In the Rain, Judy In Love, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, A Couple of Song and Dance Men_ \-- faces Clarke vaguely remembers from old movies, songs that have been covered a dozen times since these recordings. She pulls out an old copy of _Oklahoma!_ and smiles at the brilliant orange sky over the two lovebirds giving sappy smiles, about to burst into song. She glances around the room for a record player, but there’s nothing in the living room. Still clutching the record, Clarke wanders down the hallway Lexa had disappeared down. Clarke can hear the sound of the shower through the door on her left, and she briefly places her ear against the wood, listening for she doesn’t know what before she hurries along, pushing open another door on the right to escape.

Clarke can tell immediately that this is Lexa’s room. The bed has been made with clinical precision, a frayed knit blanket folded at the end, and there is a row of plants sitting in the windowsill, all looking obnoxiously healthy and full. Aside from the bed, there is only one other piece of furniture; a desk with faux wood covering that peels at the corners, stacked carefully with books. Clarke shifts them slightly to read the titles and grimaces-- _Problem Solving in Chemical Engineering with Numerical Methods, Fluid Mechanics, Heat Transfer, and Mass transfer._ Three pencils are laid out in a straight line and a protractor sits at the exact same angle. Impulsively, Clarke grabs a sticky note from a well-organized supply box that also contains silver paperclips and plain thumbtacks. She slaps it on the desk next to the pencils, scrawls “super weird” and draws an arrow to the now slightly askew pencils.

Clarke wanders the room, record and sticky notes still in hand, and she finds herself writing questions and sticking them around the room. _“What are these”_ she writes next to the plants and sticks it on the window. _“Why engineering”_ she writes a note on top of Lexa’s books. Clarke opens Lexa’s closet to find rows of plaid button downs and just two pairs of pants. _“Which is your favorite shirt,”_ she writes and puts it on the closet door handle. _“Who made this,”_ is stuck to the fraying yarn of the knit blanket. As time passes Clarke writes more open-ended questions, sticking them on the walls at arbitrary points-- _“who was the flag for” “what color is Anya’s truck” “when will you tell me your middle name” “do you think the fish you caught were frightened” “should we get a posse together and kick Nia’s ass.”_

Clarke almost misses the sound of the the shower turning off, only stopping her scribbling when she hears shuffling steps down the hallway. She drops the sticky notes back on Lexa’s desk, returns the pen she’d been using back to its holder, just as the door opens and Lexa walks in.

It becomes quickly apparent that neither of them had thought through this part-- where Clarke would stand or where she should look or if she should say anything when Lexa walks into the room soaking wet, hair clinging damply to bruised collarbones, and wrapped only in a rough gray towel. Their eyes meet for a moment before Lexa blushes-- a coloring that Clarke can see goes all the way down her neck and chest-- and looks away.

“Sorry. I’ll go,” Clarke says, taking a step towards the door, towards Lexa. Water is puddling on the carpet at Lexa’s feet, running down her bare legs.

“It’s okay. Just have a seat,” Lexa says, backing up and gesturing in the direction of the desk chair. “You can,” Lexa clears her throat, “face the other way.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, “sure.”

Lexa opens the closet door, using it as an obscuring screen as Clarke flips the chair around, facing towards the window, eyes locked on the sky outside. She hears the sound of plastic hangers rattling and fabric rustling.

“I see you found the records,” Lexa says from behind the door.

Clarke reflexively squeezes the record in her hand, raising it to her chest, feeling as naked as Lexa in the moment.

“No record player though,” Clarke replies, her voice raspy to her own ears.

“We had to sell it,” Lexa says, “But I refused to let Anya take the records. No one would buy them anyway.”

Clarke looks down at the record in her hands-- those cheerful smiles, that brilliant sunset--wondering how long it had been since Lexa had listened to it.  
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a fan of musicals.”

“They belonged to my mother,” Lexa says, and Clarke can feel her walking up behind her, turns to look back up at her. Lexa’s hair is still tousled and wet, hanging loosely over her shoulders and a black and blue flannel. Faded block letters that read “Tri-State” ran down the legs of her worn gray sweatpants. Lexa looks pale and scrubbed clean. The blood and grime is gone, and what’s left is the fine lines of repair, like shattered ceramic carefully glued back together. “She loved old movies, old musicals. When I was small we would spend all night watching them. She knew every word to every song. She was not as talented at the dance numbers.”

Lexa’s eyes are fixed on the record as she speaks and Clarke can see in them that depth of resigned sadness she’s seen there before, like loss was a home you could grow used to rather than one you ran away from.

For a moment Clarke is tempted to ask more, but thinks better of it. Whatever had happened, Lexa’s mother wasn’t here now, and the sadness on Lexa’s face was explanation enough.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, holding out the record.

Lexa shakes her head slightly, the corner of her mouth going up in an attempt at a smile.

“It’s alright, Clarke,” she says as she takes the record, placing it carefully on the desk, “It was a long time ago.”

Clarke can’t help but think of her father, can’t help but wonder if in a year, five years, ten, she will still have that same broken down, rusty catch in her voice that Lexa has when she speaks of her mother. Clarke wonders if she’ll also insist that the pain is too long ago to matter, even as she handles pieces of her father so gingerly, like they might cut her open if mishandled. Her heart aches for herself, and for Lexa.

“It’s this one,” Lexa says, turning back to Clarke and holding out the post-it note from the closet, “my favorite shirt.”

Clarke laughs and it catches in her throat, twists around the tears there. She reaches out to Lexa, grabbing a fistful of her shirt, soft and faded to the touch and heated from Lexa’s still water warm skin. Clarke feels Lexa’s hands in her hair, and tugs her forward so she can bury her face against Lexa’s middle, inhales the smell of fabric softener and that uniquely green smell that belongs just to Lexa. She feels Lexa’s fingers continue to twist through her hair, feels Lexa bend to hold her, feels the soft kiss Lexa leaves on top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says around the tears, face buried in Lexa’s shirt.

“I’m not,” Lexa says, and Clarke both hears and feels her voice, so close are they together. “It’s not wrong to be in pain, Clarke.”

Clarke continues to clutch at Lexa, taking comfort in the steady feel of her body around her, the way Lexa’s careful fingers run through her hair, grazing her neck.

“I’m so tired,” Clarke says.

“I know,” Lexa replies, “I am too.”

Clarke looks up and meets Lexa’s eyes, green and weary and soft for her.

“Can I stay?” She asks.

Lexa nods, and holds out a hand for Clarke to take. Clarke reaches for her, and Lexa locks their fingers together, pulls Clarke to the bed. She folds Clarke underneath blankets and close to herself, and Clarke nestles into her arms, careful against Lexa’s ribs. Lexa’s bed smells overwhelmingly of her, and Clarke clothes her eyes, breathes it in and is comforted. When she opens her eyes again she finds Lexa still looking at her with the same warmth, the same care. Clarke traces a line across Lexa’s sharp cheekbones, dancing over the scrapes there. Lexa’s fingers find their way back to Clarke’s hair, stroking it away from her temple and, instinctively, Clarke turns to kiss Lexa’s wrist.

“Clarke,” Lexa sighs, and Clarke watches her cheeks and neck color again.

Clarke loves the sound of her name in Lexa’s voice, loves the way Lexa seems to melt under her lips even more. Clarke is exhausted, and so tired of being sad. More than anything she just wants to sink into the sound of Lexa saying her name.

“This is a really strange summer for me,” Clarke says, “but I’m glad you’re in it.”

Lexa smiles, still looking a little shaken, “Well, this is all fairly standard for me.”

Clarke traces the smile with her fingertips, her touch lingering at the corner of Lexa’s mouth.

“I liked kissing you the other night,” Clarke says.

“I enjoyed it too, Clarke.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I tried it again?”

“No,” Lexa says, and her voice is lower, her eyes darker.

Clarke closes the distance between them, presses her lips to Lexa’s jaw, to her neck, to the place just below her ear.

“Clarke,” Lexa says again, her voice nearing a whine.

Clarke grins, biting her lip, “You don’t like building anticipation?”

Lexa’s fingers twist in Clarke’s hair, dragging Clarke towards her so that Lexa’s lips finally meet her own. Lexa’s lip is split and Clarke knows it must hurt, but Lexa doesn’t seem to care, kissing Clarke harder until Clarke opens her mouth and feels Lexa’s tongue against hers. Clarke’s hands start to slide down Lexa’s side, forgetting to be careful against the bruises and cuts along her skin, digging her fingers into Lexa’s hips. One of Lexa’s hands traces down Clarke’s neck, brushes across her collarbone, and Clarke’s skin shocks at the touch.

Clarke is so wrapped up in the feeling of Lexa against her, the taste of her mouth, and the smell of her skin, that she only dimly registers the sound of a door clicking open, or the sound of stomping feet. It’s only when Lexa draws back and cocks her head at the door that Clarke’s senses are able to register anything other than Lexa.

“Lexa?” a sharp voice calls from somewhere in the apartment, sounding rough and familiar.

Lexa’s eyebrows shoot upward and Clarke would have been tempted to laugh at her expression if she wasn’t in such a compromising position.

“Anya’s home early,” Lexa says, her face still flush, “Would you like to meet my sister?”


End file.
